Crippled
by Shenzuul
Summary: Soul Eater and Maka do not trust anyone but each other. Not their families. Not their friends. Not even the God of Death, to whom they have pledged their loyalty. But circumstances change, and hope beckons...
1. one

**.one.**

There was a reason, Dr. Franken Stein mused, tasting the warm night breeze, why it was called Soul Perception. Not Soul _Vision,_ or Soul _Sight,_ or Soul _Scrying._ Soul _Perception_ implied so much more than an ability tied to the power of one's eyes. Eyes, after all, could so easily be deceived. Humans—from the extremes of purity and corruption that seemed mere distortions of humanity to the whole range of lovely, chaotic in-betweens that seemed to define it—were so easily blinded. Sight was narrow, limited. Dr. Stein had to give his students some credit on his tests when they tried to describe Soul Perception as the ability to see souls—after all, few developed their Soul Perception enough to understand it beyond the scopes of vision—but he took perverse pleasure in docking a point or two from students who would otherwise receive perfect scores. Still, there was a twinge of disappointment; not a single student seemed to really _understand_.

Soul Perception was so much more.

It was the sound of a soul's unique vibrations—the more musically inclined might call it a soul's song. It was the singular smell a soul exuded, faint to be sure, but lingering for as long as _years _in places where a soul had experienced intense emotion. It was a taste carried on the air currents, a taste even weapons could not sense when they ate corrupted souls, and a feeling, a ghostly brush against the skin like fur or scales or leaves or stone. It was a tightening in the gut, the stirring of instinct. Soul Perception relied on _all_ of the senses. That was why it was so damned hard to fool.

**Stein? What're you thinking about? **The voice transmitted through the cold metal of the huge black scythe the doctor held casually in his hands. An image appeared in the long, graceful blade, an image of a man with chin-length red hair and bright turquoise eyes. **Hey, Stein, you listening to me?** asked the man in the scythe.

Stein blinked behind his large, circular glasses. "Hmm?" His lips twitched into a smile that looked out of place on his face, characterized as it was by emotionless eyes and marred by a large scar that curved across his left cheek. "Yes, I'm listening, Spirit."

**Focus,** Spirit Albarn chided. **We're on a mission, remember? We can't afford to mess this up.**

Stein sighed, twisting the huge screw that poked out of his messy gray hair. "Of course."

**Soooo…are you picking anything up?** Spirit wanted to know.

"Yes," the doctor replied. He inhaled deeply through his nose and listened intently to the noises of the city below. He rose from his crouch on the roof of the church. "They're on the move. They're heading east, through the slums. They may be aware that they are being pursued; it is difficult to be certain just by reading the emotions they are emitting."

**Of course they know they're being chased,** Spirit grumbled. **They must've known they would be the minute they stepped foot in Death City. What I don't get is why they came in the first place. Are they suicidal, or something?**

"It does seem a rather illogical step," agreed Stein, frowning slightly. "And they must have some measure of cleverness to have evaded capture for so long. I wonder what they're planning." He squared his shoulders and readjusted his grip on Spirit's staff. "I suppose we'll find out soon enough. Are you ready?"

Spirit smiled dangerously. **Let's go.**

Stein took off at a run, heading straight for the edge of the roof. He used Spirit's staff to pole vault over the gap between the church and the next building over. His long white lab coat, crisscrossed with large, uneven stitches, flapped behind him. Stein landed easily, off again almost the instant his feet connected with the hard shingle. Eyes closed, he moved confidently forward, guided unerringly by his Soul Perception.

**So tell me more about these two, **Spirit enjoined Stein. **I know they're a runaway Death Scythe and meister, but I wasn't paying attention to the rest.**

"You were unconscious," pointed out Stein, amused. "You were being irritating, so Lord Death gave you a Reaper Chop."

**Totally undeserved,** Spirit muttered. **So, you gonna tell me or not?**

Without bothering to open his eyes, Stein told Spirit what he knew. "The two were affiliated with one of the DWMA branches. The one in Japan, I believe. They weren't enrolled as actual students, but they took on missions and were working to collect their one hundred souls."

**Is that even possible?** asked Spirit, frowning. **I thought all technicians and demon weapons had to train and take classes at the schools.**

"Yes, it is possible. Although it is rare, some meisters and weapons work outside of the school system. They are, essentially, bounty hunters, or mercenaries. They are unable to achieve rank, so there are fewer missions they officially qualify for, and they are unable to use resources such as the libraries. They must follow the rules about only killing those on Lord Death's list and protecting the innocent. If, against all odds, they succeed in creating a Death Scythe, the weapon must be turned over to Lord Death, and is registered officially at a school to begin training."

**I don't see why you wouldn't become a student and get the training in the first place. Hunting pre-kishins and witches is dangerous—the schools' classes are meant to help you survive,** Spirit said.

"There are various reasons not to enroll. But you are correct; if your ultimate goal is to create a Death Scythe, the best course of action is to sign up as a student from the very beginning."

**So what's the story with these two?** Spirit asked, bringing the conversation back to his original question.

"They managed to collect all ninety-nine of the required kishin eggs in just two years, quickly even for regular students. Then they took on a witch—unofficially, since the mission called for a two- or three-star pair. It appears that they somehow managed to defeat the witch, but afterwards, they disappeared instead of reporting in for Death Scythe training. They were declared rogue and have been on the run from DWMA agents for the last seven months."

**Have they caused any trouble?**

"Not that we know of. But we do not know what they are up to. They may be in collusion with enemies of the DWMA. We have to keep tabs on all Death Scythes. They are powerful tools of destruction, no matter whose hands they are in."

**I know,** Spirit replied. **Besides, running off like that betrays Lord Death's trust. The number one loyalty of a weapon or meister should always be to the Reaper. Running looks suspicious at best.**

"Exactly."

**So, what else do you know? Names, ages, genders, appearances?**

"Not much. The technician should be a female, the weapon a male. The tech uses the initial 'M,' which may refer to a first name, a last name, or simply 'meister.' Beyond that…we have nothing."

**Then how the hell are you tracking their souls?** demanded Spirit. **How can you be so certain it's them we're chasing?**

"Death Scythes have a very distinctive…flavor…to their souls. I have met all the registered Death Scythes, and this soul wavelength does not match any of them."

…**Oh.**

The two fell silent. Stein ran quietly but quickly, leaping from rooftop to rooftop effortlessly, even with his eyes shut tight. Spirit listened to the vibrations the doctor was giving off: curiosity, excitement, calculation, and a hint of bloodlust—not a lot, just enough to get the job done, but Spirit would keep an eye on him anyway, as he always did, to make sure that the man didn't get too carried away. Stein was a genius, the best technician the Death Weapon Meister Academy had ever seen, but his recovering mind had not yet fully stabilized.

Stein stiffened abruptly, and his eyes snapped open. "They're here," he told Spirit tersely, upping his pace. He jumped the gap between a restaurant and a bakery and skidded to a halt at the edge of the roof overlooking the street below. His piercing hazel eyes scanned the deserted street below. "There," he murmured as his gaze fell upon a small, dark figure bearing a large scythe emerging from an alley across the street. As if the doctor's low voice had somehow carried, the figure started and looked directly up at Stein and the Death Scythe. Immediately, the fugitive took off running, skirting around the yellow pools of light spilled by the streetlamps. "And so it begins," Stein muttered, a note of hungry anticipation in his voice. The doctor leaped fearlessly off the roof, landed with a soft thud on the cobblestones below, and took off in hot pursuit of his quarry.

The target kept to the shadows, skillfully navigating around every patch of light. She—Stein assumed, because he couldn't get a clear view—had obviously had a great deal of experience with this sort of situation. She used her surroundings to her greatest advantage, knocking things over with the butt of her scythe as she passed to impede Stein's progress, slipping through narrow gaps that the larger man had to find a way around, taking routes that passed over rickety boxes, fences, and planks that threatened to collapse under Stein's greater weight. Nevertheless, Stein knew that he was slightly faster than she was, and if he had tried, he might have been able to catch up with her. But Stein had quickly noticed that his quarry, despite her attempts to lose him, had a specific destination in mind. Her stride was far too purposeful for someone with only escape in mind, and her detours always curved back towards what seemed to be a predetermined path. Deciding to see where she intended to go, Stein let her keep the lead.

**Hey, Stein…**Spirit said slowly, looking at the familiar buildings and streets as they raced by. **This place…**

Stein nodded sharply. He recognized the area, too. "What are they looking for here?" he wondered aloud.

**You don't think…**

"That would be highly unlikely."

But minutes later, Stein was proven incorrect. The rogue meister whipped around a corner and turned onto a street dominated on one side by high concrete wall that looked as though it had been sliced apart and sewn back together by a giant with unsteady hands. She ran right up to the gate that bisected the wall and, using her scythe to propel herself into the air, cleared it easily. **What do you know,** Spirit remarked grimly. **What do you think she wants at your lab, Stein?**

"I don't know," Stein replied, equally grim. "Shall we find out?" He sprinted toward the gate. He didn't bother to unlock it, opting for the faster method of launching himself over with the help of the scythe. A small cloud of dirt puffed into the air upon his landing on the other side. He straightened, Soul Perception drawing his eyes immediately to his prey, though she had retreated into the shadows of the front porch of his laboratory and home.

"Are you done running away?" Stein called to her, resting the butt of Spirit's staff on the ground and leaning against the Death Scythe as though settling in for a long chat. Spirit knew that beneath the relaxed demeanor, Stein was completely alert, ready to spring into battle at a moment's notice.

"What do you want?" The rogue meister's voice was definitely female. She sounded much younger than either Spirit or Stein had expected. Her tone was hard with determination and a world-weariness that didn't fit her youthful voice.

**You know what we're here for! **snapped Spirit. **Don't play stupid!**

"Humor me," the girl said coolly.

"Easy, Spirit," murmured Stein, feeling the weapon's soul bristling. Addressing the rogue meister, he said in his driest tones, "We are here to take you and your Death Scythe into custody. You will be questioned, by myself and a Death Scythe, and possibly by Lord Death. Your fate will then be determined. To be perfectly frank," he added, eyes narrowing, "it doesn't look good for you. Your flight from duty is an act of treason; you will likely be stripped of the souls you have collected, and you may face incarceration."

"I cannot allow that to happen. I _will_ not." The runaway scythe technician stepped forward out of the shadows, and Stein and Spirit finally had the opportunity to examine her and her Death Scythe.

The girl was a study of contradictions. She was probably in her late teens, but her small stature and two sand-colored ponytails made her appear much younger. Fierce green eyes that had clearly seen too much in a short lifetime belied the soft innocence of the rest of her face. She wore a demure white blouse and sleeveless yellow pullover with a green-and-white-striped tie, but her red plaid skirt was cut perilously short. She had combined her school girl look with a long black trench coat and heavy-duty combat boots. She was built along slim, delicate lines, but she held a scythe that looked heavier than she was with obvious ease.

The scythe's appearance was unusual as well. Most weapons' coloring followed the natural shades of the materials they were made of—a range of browns for various woods and gray, silver, black, and the occasional gold or copper for metal. The blade of this scythe was divided by a jagged line, above which the metal was jet black, and below which it was a bold scarlet. At the meeting of the blade and the staff rested a large, circular eye with a crimson iris. A decorative gold piece framed the eye with rays like a sun. The staff was a bright silver where it was attached to the blade, but about a foot down the metal changed abruptly, losing its bright sheen and darkening significantly.

Stein was particularly intrigued by the pair's souls. The meister's, at first glance, looked absolutely normal, which in and of itself set off alarm bells in Stein's head. A meister who had accomplished as much as this one should have anything but an ordinary soul. But this girl's soul was small, apparently unexceptional. Stein took a moment to look into the soul's character, and found a personality as contrary as the girl's appearance suggested: serious, but inclined toward cheerfulness; innocent, but distrustful; intelligent, but impulsive; fearful, but determined; honest, but not open. He filed the information away in case he could use it later and made one more attempt to probe her soul, seeking the secret he was certain was locked away in the depths of her being, but he detected nothing unusual, just a fluttering sound and a feeling like feathers brushing against his soul.

The doctor turned his attention to the weapon. Unlike in the case of the meister, Stein could immediately name this soul's abnormality. The very nature of this soul was twisted and dark. When Stein tried to penetrate it with his Soul Perception, his mind felt like it was being stretched into a ribbon and then turned and twirled and wound into a knot. The harder Stein pressed, the further he was drawn into the soul's convolutions. He hastily pulled back, frowning. He could list a handful of reasons why a soul might become so tangled, but this did not feel like insanity or a highly complex personality or purposefully designed defenses. It felt more like…claustrophobia. How perplexing.

Stein was so focused on his study of the souls of the renegade Death Scythe and meister that it took him some time to notice the distress of the weapon in his own hands. However, as he disengaged his Soul Perception to mull over what he had found, he picked up on Spirit's agitation. "What is it?" he murmured to the Death Scythe.

**The girl…**breathed Spirit. He sounded dazed.

"Isn't she a bit young for you?" prodded Stein, when it was clear that Spirit was too distracted to continue.

**She…she looks like…Kami.**

Surprised, Stein looked at the girl again. He hadn't known Spirit's wife very well, but they had met a few times before she had disappeared almost eighteen years ago, and Spirit had shoved plenty of pictures of her in his face. Yes, he now saw that the girl bore a very strong resemblance to Kami; he ought to have noticed before. "It is possible they are related," Stein said thoughtfully. "Her daughter, perhaps? She looks young enough. Perhaps Kami found another man after she left." Stein felt Spirit flinch at that possibility through their soul link.

The girl cut into their conversation. "You're not…the man who lives here, are you?" Stein and Spirit turned to her. While they had been taking in her appearance, she had been studying them just as intently. It didn't surprise Stein that she had drawn this conclusion; the building that contained Stein's laboratory and the concrete wall that surrounded the perimeter were covered in the same stitch patterns that marked Stein's clothing and face.

"I am," Stein acknowledged.

"And you work for Shibusen?"

"I do." Stein didn't miss the bitter disappointment that flashed across the girl's face, as though a hope she had cherished had suddenly been snuffed out, though the girl quickly buried the emotion. Resignedly, the renegade meister readied her Death Scythe. She murmured something to her weapon that Stein did not catch before meeting Stein's gaze once more, eyes glinting with resolve.

"I assume I'll have to fight you if I'm to go on my way," she said tonelessly.

"That is correct," Stein affirmed. He tilted his head, and the moonlight gleamed menacingly off his glasses. "Shall we begin?"

Without replying, the girl charged forward. Faster than lightning, Stein dropped his relaxed stance and swung Spirit up into a block. The two Death Scythes slammed together with a ringing crash. Stein blinked, surprised by the force behind the girl's blow. She was much stronger than she looked. He snapped a leg up and under the locked scythes, aiming a knee at the girl's stomach. Immediately she spun out of the way, fluidly turning the dodge into another slice. Stein parried easily before twisting Spirit around to swipe at the girl's legs. She jumped over the sweeping scythe, ponytails swaying madly, and chopped down at Stein's shoulder. Dodging, he swung the butt of Spirit's staff toward the girl's ribcage, but she knocked the blow away.

Stein constantly analyzed and reanalyzed the girl's movements as he exchanged strikes and parries with her. To the untrained eye, her fighting style seemed simplistic—a mixture of traditional scythe weapon forms and basic martial arts techniques. But her flawless execution, exquisite timing, expert exploitation of weaknesses, and unique combinations would spell catastrophe for the one to underestimate her. In short, she was strong, fast, smart, and deadly, and Stein felt a glimmer of respect for her. It was time to stop messing around.

The girl angled her scythe for an upslash. Stein flipped Spirit around his hands and thrust the Death Scythe into a block. The moment he felt the collision of the two weapons, he twisted Spirit to lock the scythe blades together. In the space of the two heartbeats he knew the girl would need to free her weapon, Stein released one hand's grip on Spirit's staff and jabbed his open palm towards her abdomen. His wavelength shifted, concentrating in his hand, manifesting in crackling white sparks skipping off his skin. The girl tried to jerk away, but Stein was too fast. The heel of his hand slammed into her stomach. "Soul Purge!" he shouted, releasing the pent up wavelengths into the girl's body. The crackling light exploded; the girl was knocked off her feet. She hit the ground hard and skidded back several yards. Her grip on her scythe never loosened; almost immediately she scrambled back to her feet.

"You can attack directly with your soul wavelength," the rogue meister rasped. She coughed, grimaced, and spat a mouthful of blood on the ground. "Damn," she muttered under her breath.

Stein lifted an eyebrow. "Not many would recognize that attack," the doctor commented. The girl shrugged, readjusting her grip on her Death Scythe and sliding her feet apart into a defensive stance. Interpreting this as his cue, Stein darted forward to engage her once more. The screech of metal against metal once more rent the air.

Crimson and black streaks burned into the technicians' vision as the Death Scythes whirled in an endless dance in which one misstep could mean death. The speed and ferocity of the blows intensified, while blocks grew ever more aggressive. Stein and the renegade meister traded offense and defense so quickly that the one soon blended into the other. The girl was good, Stein had to admit to himself—good enough to provide a refreshing challenge. She wisely was keeping herself well out of reach of his Soul Purge attack. The thin trail of blood trickling from the corner of her mouth testified to the internal damage Stein had done with the first hit; many more of those, and it would be a corpse he and Spirit brought before Lord Death.

Cloth tore. Stein stumbled slightly, blood welling up around a gash on his thigh. It hurt like hell, but it didn't feel deep, so he chose to ignore it. He aimed a sideways slash at the girl, whipping Spirit's staff around towards her head when she blocked the first attack. She dodged and aimed a left hook at his diaphragm. He caught her fist and yanked her towards him, pulling her off balance. She smoothly transformed her stumble into a forward roll, hitting the ground briefly before surging instantly back onto her feet. She whirled around to face him, bringing her scythe up to defend herself, but wasn't quite fast enough. A ripping sound filled the air as Spirit's blade sliced through layers of clothing like warm butter. Cold metal bit into flesh, burning its way down to bone. The girl let slip a strangled sound of pain and pulled back, hand clamped over a deep wound on her collarbone. Teeth gritted, she pulled her bloodstained hand away from the injured shoulder and fastened it once more on her scythe, just in time to yank it up and block Stein's next attack. There was barely a tremor in her guard.

The battle was reaching the point where both fighters needed to draw on their extra reserves of strength. The power behind their blows did not falter, but neither was moving as quickly as before. Stein picked up cuts on his hand, calf, and biceps. The girl bled from deep wounds on her side and hip; blood oozing from a scratch over her left eye threatened her vision. Both were layered with bruises they didn't remember receiving. Beads of perspiration speckled their skin.

Stein darted around a diagonal slice and threw himself into a counterattack. The girl backpedaled, spinning her scythe around her hands to deflect a storm of rapid jabs. Stein aimed a powerful blow at her hands, which she avoided just in time, and then kicked at the girl's injured shoulder. She ducked just a hair too slowly; the kick grazed her wound and made her stumble backwards. The whirlwind of calculations, analyses, questions, and plans in Stein's mind began to slow, calmed by a wave of crystalline focus that spread through him like cool liquid. His heartbeat quickened minutely. Stein recognized these signs; it meant that his body sensed imminent victory. The girl was fast losing ground. Her breathing came in labored heaves. Blood dripped steadily from her wounds, painting the ground beneath their feet scarlet. Her blocks lacked their previous force, and she attacked with less precision. Despite her best efforts, she favored her wounds.

Somehow, the renegade meister kept fighting, even though her expression said that she knew she was losing. Her eyes retained their steely glint of determination, and every line of her body spoke of defiance against the inevitable. A flicker of admiration invaded Stein's mind. He quashed it immediately, hardening his already icy heart. He hammered at her defenses relentlessly. Side sweep. Overhead chop. Jab. Jab. Slash. Upper cut. Side sweep. Jab. Stein felt the girl's arms shake as she knocked aside each blow. With every attack, she was driven back another step. Upper cut. Low strike. Thrust. Down slash.

The girl slipped slightly on a small pool of her own blood. It was all the opening Stein needed. Energy roared through his veins as he slammed Spirit down on her scythe, smashing through her guard. Spirit's staff crashed into her ribs. Cracks assailed Stein's ears as the girl's bones snapped like dry twigs underfoot. Impossibly, she managed to stay on her feet, but the gesture was meaningless. In the next moment, Stein was right in front of her. For a single eternal instant, his hard, ruthless eyes stared right into her stubborn, pain-clouded ones. Then Stein thrust both hands forward, stabbing his fingers into her abdomen.

"_Double Soul Purge!"_

White hot light blazed, and a thundering boom shook the earth. The rogue meister was blasted backwards. Blood spurted between her lips. Her weapon slipped from limp fingers. She landed in a crumpled heap, bad shoulder jammed against the ground, hair spilling over her face, and lay still. Her Death Scythe fell, clattering, several feet away.

**MAKA! **_**MAKA! MAKAAAAAAAAAAAAA!**_

The deep, rough voice cried out heart-wrenchingly from the fallen Death Scythe. Raw panic shone visibly in the weapon's huge red eye. Stein slowly approached the defeated meister, keeping one wary eye on the weapon. The Death Scythe in his own hands glowed for a moment before disappearing, replaced by a tall, redheaded man with turquoise eyes.

**No! **shouted the crimson and black Death Scythe on the ground. _**Stay away from her!**_

The redhead glanced at the other Death Scythe. "Aren't you going to transform and defend your meister?" he asked. "That's what _I_ would be doing." He followed after Stein. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the girl, who was barely conscious.

"She probably won't make it back to the school," Stein commented. "She's losing too much blood. It's fortunate that our orders didn't specify whether to bring her back dead or alive. It might be better if I…" He began to bend down, a hand stretching out toward the girl's unmoving form.

_**NOOOOO! **_roared the rogue Death Scythe. Intense light glowed around the weapon. Stein paused to watch. For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then the scythe's outline started to shake, to twist and stretch. Both Stein's and Spirit's eyes, riveted on the transfiguration, widened. Something was very, very wrong. They stared as the heel of the scythe bubbled and writhed and slowly morphed into the head and shoulders of a boy with a mane of bone white hair. Half of his face pressed against the ground, the boy wrenched his shoulders, struggling to pull himself free of the weapon. The surface of the scythe blade rippled, and a single arm ripped itself from the metal, still glowing as though it wasn't sure it wanted to remain flesh and blood. The moment it was loose, it scrabbled on the earth, straining to drag the boy's partially transformed body toward the fallen meister.

"**Ma**k**a**…M**a**k**aaa**aa**a**a…" the boy strangled out, voice pulling itself painfully from half-formed chest and lungs. His lips parted in a grimace of intense concentration, revealing jagged teeth. The glow around the scythe blade brightened, and the metal at last yielded to a second arm. The arm scraped over the ground as the boy began to crawl. Little by little, the bright silver part of the shaft melted into skin, until the boy's torso was almost complete. The dark part of the staff remained stubbornly unchanged, the light dimmer around its dull metal. It dragged pitifully behind the boy as he strove to reach the girl he called Maka.

Stein and Spirit watched silently, petrified. They had seen many horrors before, but this eerie scene shook even their toughened souls. Weapon transformation was supposed to be instantaneous, effortless. The sight of this weapon's struggle to return to its natural human form, the shape in which it had been born, was gruesome, perverse. The sound of the boy's ragged gasps grated on their ears. The metal shaft scraped over the ground with an awful grinding noise. The boy's arms shook with the strain of moving his malformed body. He was unable to even lift his bare chest from the cold earth. The glow around his staff pulsed weakly. The fifteen-foot distance between him and his meister took an eternity to cross. Face contorted into a fierce snarl of determination, the weapon heaved himself forward, inch by painful inch.

As he drew closer to his goal, the weapon's staff finally finished its transmutation. White light hid the dark, dull metal, and the shape shifted, widening as it prepared to become human hip and leg. There was one final flash, and the boy's body convulsed. Fully human, he half-lunged, half-fell across the last few feet separating him from his meister, landing gracelessly beside her. He brought his palms underneath his chest and roughly shoved himself up, turning his body to shield the girl, back hovering over her, one arm braced against the ground, the other flung to the side as if to block the fallen meister from her enemies' view. There were two sharp intakes of breath as the doctor and the senior Death Scythe at last beheld the weapon's human form in its entirety.

They first noticed the eyes, no longer hidden under the shadow of the weapon's wild white hair. It was a true testimony to their power that they drew attention away from the rest of the boy's body even for a moment. The blood red eyes seemed to shine with their own inner light. They burned with such intensity that one wondered how it was that anything that became the object of their gaze did not immediately ignite. The ruby depths churned with a vortex of raw emotion—fury, pain, loyalty, terror, despair, hatred, sorrow, guilt, rebellion, resoluteness. As when he had looked upon the weapon's convoluted soul, Stein found that he had to turn his eyes away. What they fell upon was a nightmare.

Clad in only dark, threadbare jeans and an amulet dangling from a black leather thong around his neck, the young Death Scythe shivered, despite the warmth of summer night's air. The history of a difficult life was written in battle scars crisscrossing his exposed skin. The thick, ropy scars, like the one running from his left shoulder to right hip, spoke of how close he had come, multiple of times, to losing his life before reaching his twentieth year. But it wasn't the scars that made the breath catch in Stein's lungs.

Scraps of dark, dull metal were embedded in the boy's flesh along the right side of his body. One scrap was buried in his hip. Two strips traced the curves of a pair of ribs. Metal bulged from his collarbone and shoulder, and more spiked down his right arm. Slivers were nestled along his jaw and sliced across his right temple. Tanned skin blanched where it met the dark shards. The metal seemed to be the same as that which made up most of the weapon's staff in his scythe form, the same metal that had been so reluctant to transform into human tissue.

Stein's eyes travelled down the young Death's Scythe's body, noting each place where metal distorted flesh. Then his gaze fell on something he had not spotted earlier, and he felt all the moisture depart from his mouth. The weapon's right leg…it was gone, cut off halfway down the thigh. The boy's jeans caved in, empty, beyond the stump.

Crippled. By the Reaper, it was a _crippled weapon._ Stein felt bile rise in his throat as an unfamiliar, unwelcome feeling swept through him. Pity. It tasted foul. At his side, he could feel Spirit's soul reeling with a similar, but much stronger emotion. That wasn't surprising. After all, the redhead was a weapon, too, and more prone to feelings like kinship and empathy. Neither man could tear his eyes away from the sight. The boy seemed to be struggling to hold himself up. His feral red eyes narrowed with pain even as he glared at the two men from whom he shielded his meister. His muscles shook uncontrollably. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body. Every shallow breath he drew in rattled loudly in his chest.

"I…won't let you…touch…my meister," the boy hissed through clenched teeth. A shudder tore through his frame, and he almost collapsed, keeping himself hovering over his meister only through sheer force of will.

There was a quiet rustling behind the weapon. "Soul…" a faint voice whispered, barely loud enough for Stein and Spirit to hear. "Don't…" The meister, somehow still conscious, coughed weakly. Blood spilled from her lips. She tried to reach out to her weapon, but could only move one hand enough to brush her fingers against his.

Without warning, the weapon doubled over, a muffled groan forcing itself from his throat. The metal in his skin began to glow. "No…" he moaned. His trembling muscles began to spasm more violently. He strove to pull himself upright, but his body refused to support his weight, and he thudded to the ground. His fists clenched until his knuckles were white and the tendons in his arms stood out visibly beneath his skin. His sharp teeth tore into his bottom lip until it bled as he fought his own body. The glow spread from the metal to his skin. _"No!" _he roared. The light dimmed and brightened as he fought the transformation back into his weapon form. His back arched, and he cried out once more in agony and frustration. Then his body went limp as he blacked out. Immediately, the white light overtook him and he changed back into a red and black scythe.

"Soul," the girl called softly. Her fingers slid over the scythe and slowly clenched around the staff. Her eyes drifted shut, and she followed her partner into oblivion.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>

First: I tried to write a chapter story once. It sucked. I didn't finish. That was a couple of years ago, maybe? We'll see how this one works. I actually have a plot planned. I'm going to try to update once a week. Most chapters will not be this long.

Also: I am looking for a beta reader for this story. Tried to get one…waited two weeks for a reply…got really impatient…sorry! I am a horrible, flawed, impatient human being! Anyway, I am looking for someone mean who will give me the honest truth when I write something that sucks or doesn't make sense. You'll probably need to be really good at editing fight scenes ('cause I suck at them. See evidence above.)

Penultimate: I am happy to take suggestions. Please. Ask away.

Last: I pray to my deity that this is the longest Author's note I will ever write in my life. **Ever.**


	2. two

**.two.**

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Damn, what an irritating noise.

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

What the hell was it, anyway?

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Some sort of machine, he guessed. It was too regular to be anything else. Besides, what natural thing _beeped_? Nothing that he knew of.

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

How long had it been going on, now? He couldn't recall. He felt like it had always been there. Or…here, he supposed. Here…Here…? Where?

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Damn! That thing was so _annoying._ It made it hard to think straight. He listened, searching for some other sound to distract him from the persistent beeping. There. A faint humming. That probably came from a machine, too. And a steady ticking…a clock? And that whirring might be from some sort of fan…just where the hell was he? Indoors? Why? And why was it so dark? And—and where was _Maka?_ He cursed himself for not thinking of her sooner. _Damn_ that beeping! What was wrong with him? Usually, he woke up immediately and completely when he was in weapon form. It was more like turning on and off his consciousness than sleeping and awakening. Why did he feel so…groggy? He didn't like it.

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Damn.

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Wait…what was that sound to his left? It was soft, rhythmic. _Hhmm… haahhh… Hhmm… haahhh…. _It was…nice. Soothing. _Hhmm… haahhh…_ Like ocean waves in the distance. Or a gentle breeze.

Or the soft breathing of a sleeper.

_Maka!_

Suddenly, there was sharp white light blinding him, confusing him. What the—what just happened? He had wanted the darkness to go away so that he could see his meister, and just like that, it had gone. But now the light was hurting him. He wondered if he could get the darkness back. The moment the desire crossed his mind, there it was. Dark again. Only, it wasn't quite as dark as he had first thought. Actually, he could kinda tell that there was light behind his layer of darkness. It reminded him of something, something from a long time ago. He struggled to focus. What had it been...? Argh, it didn't matter. He needed to see his meister. He wondered if he could get the light again, but a little less intense this time. Slowly, the darkness parted down the middle, letting a bit of light filter in. He squinted, trying to make out his surroundings. Wait—_squinted?_ As in, with _eyes?_

He sat up abruptly, body reacting to his shock on its own. His vermilion eyes snapped fully open of their own accord. Once more, the light overwhelmed them, but instead of closing them, he hesitantly lifted a hand to brush away the water spilling from the corners. He looked down at his fingertips, fascinated by the diamond-like drops adorning them. He flexed his hand, amazed to see it obey his command. Was this…a dream? No, that was ridiculous—he hadn't dreamed since before he had become trapped in scythe form; a weapon couldn't truly sleep. Then…this was real. He clenched his fist.

A warmth at his side called his attention. _Warmth._ He hadn't felt anything in so long. He turned to see the source, marveling at the feel of muscles in his neck and torso contracting and stretching as he did so. His eyes fell upon the figure that was by now so much more familiar than his own, slumped forward in a chair beside him. Ash blonde hair, currently free from its constraining ties, spilled over thin shoulders. Her calloused hands clutched the white sheets of the bed he only now realized he occupied. Her face was pressed against her knuckles. Average-length eyelashes brushed the pale skin of her cheeks. Her pert little nose was wrinkled slightly, and her lips pressed together in a firm line—she was worrying about something, even in her sleep. Maka. His meister.

As if she had felt his gaze upon her, the girl stirred. She breathed in deeply through her nose and blinked her eyes open. "Mmm," she moaned softly. She tilted her face so that her chin instead of her cheek rested on her fists. Her unfocused eyes stared at his hip for several moments. She frowned a little, and her eyes traveled sluggishly up his torso, taking their time to reach his face, and at last his eyes. She stared into the scarlet orbs, face slowly lighting up. It was like watching dawn peek over the horizon. "Soul…?" she murmured. "Soul!" She jerked up abruptly, and before he quite knew what was happening, she had thrown her arms around him.

Soul stiffened, eyes widening. Her embrace was soft, warm. He could feel her chest rising and falling as she breathed, and her hair was silky against his cheek. He could tell the difference between the somewhat rougher texture of her clothes and the smoothness and _life_ of her skin. When he shakily inhaled through his nose, he could _smell _her, scent her uniquely Maka fragrance, still as he remembered it after over half a year on the run—a faint mixture of honey and berries, and a hint of something else that had no name.

Human contact. It had been so long. He almost forgotten what it was like. He hadn't realized just how much he had _craved_ it. He hadn't realized just how much he needed it as his proof that he was _human._ He was finally convinced that this was all entirely real. Dazed, he hesitantly lifted his arms and wrapped them around Maka. Feeling her smile against his shoulder, he tightened his grip slightly, returning the hug with more certainty. He reveled at the texture of her clothes and hair and skin beneath his arms. His head fell forward to rest on her shoulder.

_Bip. Bip. Bip. Bip._

Soul growled, head snapping back up. "What the hell _is_ that?" he asked. Maka chuckled a little and slipped out of his embrace, sitting back in her chair.

"It's your heart monitor," Maka told Soul, pointing over his shoulder. He turned to look, and sure enough, there was the familiar dark screen with funny green lines running across it, jumping up and down with every _bip._ Wires ran from the machine over to the bed and disappeared under the thin material of the garment Soul was wearing. He noticed for the first time that he was hooked up to an IV. When he turned to look at Maka, he realized that she was wearing a bandage on her forehead, and he could see hints of more bandages under her shirt. They…were in a hospital?

"Maka, what's going—" Soul began, but he cut himself off when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. His eyes automatically found the door, which opened moments later. In walked a gray-haired man with a giant screw protruding from his skull, a scar curving over his face, and a patchwork lab coat hanging loosely on his frame. Soul immediately recognized him. He grabbed Maka by an arm and yanked her onto the bed behind him. "Stay back!" he snarled at the man who had hurt his meister. _Not good!_ he thought, frantically searching for a means of escape. _Bipbipbipbip,_ went the heart monitor.

"I see you're awake," drawled the man in the lab coat. He ambled over to a table not far from the door and picked up a clipboard, paying no mind to Soul's defensive position. He eyed the erratically beeping heart monitor. "You should calm down," he advised, bored. "Your body is not in the best condition. Don't strain yourself."

"Soul, relax," Maka urged, tugging at Soul's arm. "Dr. Stein doesn't mean us any harm." Soul glared at the so-called doctor, but allowed Maka to scoot out from behind him and perch on the bed beside him.

"What the hell is going on?" Soul demanded. "Where are we, and why is _he _here?"

"Well…" Maka began.

Stein cut her off. "I'll explain." He grabbed a chair and dragged it over to Soul's bed, heedless of the screeching on the linoleum floor. Soul and Maka winced simultaneously. "So," Stein said, dropping into the chair and slouching forward. "I take it by your reaction to me that you remember what happened?" Soul nodded warily. "Good." The doctor made a note on his clipboard before looking back up at Soul.

"After you and Maka lost consciousness, I stabilized her. Spirit and I took you straight back to the DWMA. Maka underwent emergency surgery to repair her damaged organs and to patch up her other injuries. In the mean time, I conducted an examination on you in order to learn more about your unique problem." The sharp-eyed doctor watched as Soul paled. "I discovered some…interesting things." His expression stated clearly that he would be discussing these things with Soul and Maka more extensively in the not-so-distant future.

"I was able to find a way to revert your body to its human form and keep it there, as you can see. Your human body was extremely weak and unstable. Your metabolism was severely unbalanced, and your tissues began to deteriorate. It was a challenge to keep you alive," Stein told Soul matter-of-factly. "According to Maka, you have remained in your weapon form for a little more than six months, so perhaps it is not surprising that your human form was in such a dire state. After all, you did not eat, sleep, or even breathe during that entire time. And then, of course, there were the stressful conditions under which you managed to return briefly to your human body the night we battled. Fighting the transformation until you fainted was probably not the best course of action in terms of your physical health."

The doctor sighed, ready to wrap up his explanation. "You are currently in an isolated ward of the DWMA hospital, which is located directly within the school. You have been unconscious for two weeks. We kept Maka sedated for one week, allowing her to awaken six days ago." Stein stood and walked over to Soul. The weapon flinched. Stein ignored him, checking first his IV, then his heart monitor, then a few other machines that Soul did not recognize. "We asked Maka a few questions, and will interrogate the two of you more thoroughly at a later time." Concluding his tasks, Stein walked over to the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob to throw one more comment over his shoulder before departing. "You two…have obviously been through a lot. If you are honest and open, you may find a better reception than you expect." The door slammed shut, and Dr. Stein was gone.

Maka and Soul stared at the door in silence for several minutes. "What do they know?" Soul finally asked Maka, voice quiet.

"I gave them our names and ages. I confirmed a few things they already know about us—we were associated with the Shibusen branch in Japan but never enrolled, we collected our ninety-nine pre-kishin souls in two years, you definitely consumed a witch's soul…and I told Dr. Stein how long you were trapped in weapon form. But I didn't say anything more, and they didn't probe too deeply." Maka paused, eyes clouded with uncharacteristic uncertainty. "How much are we going to tell them?"

Soul sighed and ran a hand through his mess of white hair. "I don't know. We'll answer what we have to in order to save our butts, but I'm not sure I want to tell them too much about—the past." Maka nodded, understanding perfectly. She absently traced a strip of metal on the back of Soul's hand, losing herself in thought.

"I don't trust them," the girl murmured, "but…we've stayed here for two weeks, and there haven't been any incidents. We might be…_safe_ here, until they decide what to do with us, anyway. I still don't know whether coming to Death City has helped us or hurt us. We got what we wanted, but now we've been caught, and we don't know what's going to happen next. I'm just—I'm afraid."

Soul reached out and ruffled her hair, the old gesture coming back to him easily. "We'll get by," he promised. "We always do."

* * *

><p>"Yo, Stein, you in here?" Spirit called, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. His eyes roved over the dark room uneasily. He hated Stein's lab, really, really hated it. It was all shadows and cold drafts and uber creepiness. The bare cement floors were cold and gray. The drab walls, adorned only by Stein's crazy stitches, were cold and gray. The endless metal shelves and tables were cold and gray. The lethal-looking tools were cold and gray. The countless beakers were cold and often contained something gray. Honestly, it was worse than a crypt. It smelled worse, too—dead stuff <em>plus<em> disinfectant.

"Steeeeeeiiin," whined Spirit. "I know you're here somewhere." He skulked farther into the lab. Stein was probably lurking in the back somewhere. He shrank away from shadowy shapes and jumped at small, half-imagined sounds, bumping into more than a few sharp corners in the process. At last, he spotted an eerie blue glow and made a beeline for it. He found Stein seated at an austere desk, the dim light from a computer screen glinting off the doctor's glasses and providing strongest source of light in the whole lab. "There you are," sighed Spirit, equally relieved and unnerved by the sight of his colleague. "Hey, Lord Death has summoned you. It's about that girl and her weapon." There was no need to specify _which_ girl and weapon.

Stein gave no indication that he had heard the Death Scythe, continuing to stare at his computer screen. Spirit stood uncomfortably, waiting. The silence stretched out. Suddenly, Stein said, "I ran some tests on the girl." Spirit blinked and said nothing, not sure he wanted to know what kind of tests Stein was alluding to. Stein slowly spun in his swivel chair to face the Death Scythe, hands buried in his pockets, feet splayed out in front of him. "The girl…Maka…is your daughter."

Spirit's heart stopped. He stood frozen, gaping at Stein. The doctor casually continued, "I can't prove that the kid's Kami's daughter since I don't have any tissue samples from Kami, but there is no mistaking the fact that she is yours. So if Kami's the only one you've slept with…" Stein shrugged. He pulled out a box of cigarettes, grabbed one with his lips, and lit it. The cherry red glow seemed out of place in the ghostly blue light and deep gray shadows. "The timing's perfect," Stein went on blandly. "The girl's seventeen, with a birthday in April. She'd have been born about eight months after your wife disappeared. It is possible," Stein reflected, " to discover a pregnancy after only one month."

Spirit made a choking sound and finally reacted. _"Why?" _ he wailed. "Why would she go? I would have loved to have a baby girl!" His eyes filled with tears and he began to bawl unreservedly.

"You _do_ have a daughter," Stein reminded him. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

Spirit stared at the doctor, snot dribbling from his nose, at a loss for words. "I…I…"

Stein watched him fumble uninterestedly. "Think on it," he advised drily, breathing out a wisp of smoke that briefly took the shape of a skull. "Until Lord Death has made his decision, though, I must ask you to refrain from visiting her." Stein stuffed his hands in his pockets and strolled away, leaving Spirit to sniffle alone in the cold, gray darkness of the lab.

* * *

><p>Maka had fallen asleep with her head on the side of Soul's bed once more, despite his orders for her to return to her own bed, which occupied the same small hospital room. Soul had lain back down, but his overloaded senses kept him awake. As a weapon, he had been able to see and hear, but it was a different experience than doing so in a human body, because as a scythe, his senses were an extension of his soul's power rather than physical phenomena. He had been able to feel, to a limited extent, but it was mostly just awareness of being touched or of extremely high temperatures. It had been like being separated from the world by a glass sphere; he knew what was there, but everything was distant, muted.<p>

A thought suddenly occurred to Soul that made him shoot upright in bed. Maka awoke instantly. "Soul, what's wrong?" she asked worriedly. Without replying, Soul extended an arm out in front on him. "Soul…?" Maka repeated. The young Death Scythe narrowed his eyes. His arm briefly glowed white, and then the limb disappeared, replaced by a curved crimson and black blade. He closed his eyes and released the breath he had been holding. "Oh," murmured Maka. She watched as the blade flashed and melted back into an arm. Soul let the arm thump back down onto the bed.

"Sorry for waking you up," Soul muttered. "I just had to make sure." Maka shrugged, understanding. Before either one could say anything more, footsteps outside alerted them once again to visitors. Soul unconsciously tensed. The door to the hospital room swung open to admit Dr. Stein. Following closely on his heels, pushing an empty wheelchair, was another man whose appearance was almost as strange as the doctor's. The newcomer was tall, wide, heavily muscled, and undeniably _blue._ His facial features were skull-like, and there was a large hole in his forehead. Maka and Soul stared.

"You!" the teens exclaimed in unison.

Stein blinked, caught off guard. "You know one another?" he queried.

"Sid Barrett," Maka said. "We heard rumors that he had died and been made into a zombie by a Dr. Franken Stein. We thought that a scientist who could, at least partially, reverse death would be able to help Soul. So we came to Death City. I thought I could track down Barrett-san's soul from his grave and ask him about you, not realizing that you worked for Shibusen. We ended up finding and fighting Barrett-san at the cemetery. We forced him to tell us the location of your lab."

Stein shot a look at the zombie over his shoulder. The big blue man lifted a massive hand and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "It's true," he confessed. "I already reported to Lord Death, but I, uh, forgot to mention it to you. I figured that if I sent them to your lab, you'd deal with them."

"So you worked for Shibusen this whole time!" Maka snapped.

"Yup," said Sid. "Sid Barrett, School Nurse." He jabbed a thumb at a name tag on his white coat. "You kids can just call me Sid. Everyone does."

"Right…" Maka mumbled.

Stein sighed. "We're here to take you to Lord Death. Now that you're both awake, he'd like to talk to you as soon as possible. So, Soul…" He gestured to the wheelchair Sid had brought in.

Soul looked at the wheelchair with distaste. "Can I at least get some real clothes?" he asked. "Maka's wearing sweats, but all I've got is this." He tugged at the flimsy hospital gown. "I don't want to face Shinigami-sama wearing a freaking dress." Stein consented to the delay, so Sid left and returned with a bundle of clothing and a curtain for Soul to change behind. Maka retreated to her own bed to wait while Stein stood awkwardly in a corner. Sid helped Soul, despite the teen's protests, so that the boy wouldn't mess with his IV.

While Sid rolled away the curtain, Soul, now wearing a simple blue t-shirt, his amulet, and gray sweatpants, threw his covers off. The adults' eyes automatically turned to the weapon's right leg. The teen had tied a knot in the pant leg underneath the stump so the material wouldn't dangle. Soul, noticing the stares, scowled. He twisted himself around, slamming his foot on the ground and shooting a death glare at Sid, who had moved closer as if to help him. The weapon grabbed the arms of the wheelchair parked by his bed and easily swung himself into the seat. His hands fell on the wheels, and his expression dared anyone to try and push him. Sid quickly stepped forward to arrange Soul's IV before beating a hasty retreat. "Well?" Soul demanded challengingly. "Aren't we going to go?"

* * *

><p>The two teens gaped, slack-jawed.<p>

Leaving Sid in the school hospital, Dr. Stein had led Maka and Soul through a baffling labyrinth of corridors and classrooms that led from the hospital room to an ornate door bearing a sign that read, ominously, "The Death Room." They had seen no one in the vast school's many halls; according to Stein, school was out for the summer.

The Death Room door had opened not into a classroom or office as expected, but into some strange alternate space that _felt_ like a room but _looked _like a huge plain under an open sky. Crooked crosses sprouted from the ground like dead flowers, and fluffy clouds drifted lazily overhead. Giant guillotines arched over a path that stretched out from the door. Stein led Maka and Soul along this path to a circular platform that interrupted the cross-studded plain. High above the platform, windows appeared to hang in the sky. The platform was bare but for an enormous mirror and a few large, bright pillows.

And Lord Death.

Hence, the two gaping, slack-jawed teens.

"Hey, hey! Hello! Whazzup? How are ya?"

It was absolutely impossible to be prepared to meet the Reaper, because the God of Death defied all expectations. A black robe draped over his tall, gaunt figure, but any similarity to what one might have imagined ended there. His white skull mask was not nightmare-inducing but comically cartoon-like_._ His so-called skeletal hands were actually massive, boxy gloves oddly reminiscent of Mickey Mouse's. The thin strip of black cloak upon which he balanced looked like a spring, and indeed, all of his movements were bouncy, like an energetic child's. And his voice—squeaky, high-pitched, and thoroughly nonthreatening—seemed utterly wrong for a figure that commanded such respect. Soul and Maka gawked helplessly.

"Come in, come in, come sit down! We have a lot to talk about," Lord Death said cheerfully. He waved a hand toward the cushions, inviting them to make themselves comfortable. Still staring, Maka knelt nervously on one of the pillows. Soul wheeled over to take the space beside her.

"So! Let's get started, shall we?" suggested Lord Death, after he and Dr. Stein had taken seats across from the young Death Scythe and his meister. The Reaper clapped his colossal hands and rubbed them together. "We have lots of questions for you!" He let his hands fall, and his voice grew more serious. "So…I suppose the obvious question is…" Soul and Maka tensed.

"…what happened to you, Soul Eater?"

Soul and Maka exchanged a glance. It wasn't the question they had been expecting. "If you're asking how my body got so messed up," Soul began slowly, "then...it was the witch."

"The witch whose soul turned you into a Death Scythe?" Stein asked.

"Yeah, well, it started there," Soul clarified. "I lost my leg during that fight." He hesitated, uncertain how to continue.

Maka spoke up. "You may know this already," she said quietly, "but when a weapon loses a part of his body, he experiences an equivalent loss on his other form as well. The soul, which connects the weapon and the human body, may also be severely damaged. For a normal person, losing a limb may be a critical injury, but for a weapon, it is almost always fatal."

Dr. Stein, propping an elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his hand, spoke. "That's why crippled—" Maka winced "—weapons are so rare. Demon weapons have incredible healing capabilities, but what they can't heal tends to kill them."

Maka nodded. "Soul nearly died. It was…close. _Very_ close." Her tightly clenched fists pressed into her thighs. Soul watched her out of the corner of his eye. "Immediately after the fight, I grabbed the witch's soul and took him to a, a contact of ours who I believed could heal him. A normal hospital wouldn't have been enough—we needed someone who could see and handle souls."

Lord Death tilted his head. "Why didn't you return to the school? Our hospitals are specially equipped to deal with the injuries of weapons and meisters."

Shaking her head, Maka replied, "It occurred to me, but I wasn't entirely sure the services would be available to us since we weren't enrolled. There was no time for mistakes. Besides, our contact was closer—she happened to be conducting research nearby."

"This contact of yours," cut in Stein. "She was a witch, wasn't she?"

Soul stiffened and clenched the arms of his wheelchair. The color drained from Maka's face. Observing their reactions, Stein concluded, "Yes, then." He drew a cigarette from a box in the pocket in his lab coat, lit it, and took a long drag. "In my study of Soul's intriguing predicament, I found the spell on his soul. You are aware that it was this spell that trapped him in his weapon form?" Maka nodded jerkily. Stein breathed out a trickle of smoke and continued, "I do not know the purpose of the spell, but I was interested to find that I sensed no malicious intent behind it, and I developed my theory that you went to a witch to heal Soul." He leveled a hard stare at Soul and Maka. "I have informed you that I know your secret so that you will not feel the need to hide anything. I expect to hear _all_ the details from you."

"Y-yes," Maka forced out. She took a moment to steel herself. "I brought Soul to the—the witch. She agreed to help us. She did what she could for Soul's human body first. She had to take another inch off his leg—the original cut was clean, but he had mangled the stump badly." She gave the details dully, without flinching. "She risked further damaging his soul with the amputation, but there wasn't much choice. After, she dealt with the most critical of his other injuries—he had four deep cuts across his back that required stitching, and one of his fractured ribs had punctured a lung.

"Stabilizing his soul was more difficult. Soul's wavelength was erratic and weakening. He was conscious, but barely coherent through the pain. The witch's powers did not include healing, so she had me force resonance with Soul and directed me through the process. I can't explain exactly what we did—I don't really understand it myself."

Here, Soul took over. "My mind cleared up a little when my soul was out of immediate danger. The witch insisted on talking to me alone for a bit. Maka didn't like it, but I told her I'd be fine. After Maka left, the witch explained my options. She wanted me to hear her out completely before I let Maka influence my decision."

Maka would not look at Soul. The Death Scythe fixed his blank gaze on Lord Death's shoulder. "The witch told me that my soul wasn't handling the loss of my limb well. If she didn't do something to patch it up, I would die, probably sooner than later. She said that she needed to replace my missing piece, connecting it with my soul. She thought that she had something that would work, but the problem was, she couldn't make something that would transform from a weapon shaft into a leg and back again. She could either repair my weapon form or give me a prosthetic for my human body. Or," Soul paused, "she could let me die." Maka's eyes bored holes into the ground as her fingernails dug into her palms.

"The problem was, if I chose to be fixed, I would have to consume the witch's soul we had taken earlier. Without its power, the witch's repairs wouldn't work, and my soul wouldn't have been strong enough to withstand them anyway, not in its condition. But Shibusen wasn't going to want a crippled weapon for a Death Scythe. The witch's soul would almost certainly be confiscated if I ever returned to the school. So if I accepted the witch's offer to save me, I would be on the run for the rest of my life."

Soul smiled grimly. "Maka and I ended up in the worst fight we've ever had since we met. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to drag Maka down. My first choice would have been to have the witch fix my leg so that I could run, and then to have Maka return to the school and beg forgiveness. But Maka refused to leave me, no matter what. I didn't want Maka to be a fugitive from Shibusen, so if she wouldn't leave me while I was alive, I would take the option of dying. But Maka wouldn't have that, either. She wanted me to fix my leg so that I could be human, and then we would run together. But I knew that we would be chased by trained Shibusen weapons and meisters; we wouldn't have a chance with one hobbled human and one weaponless meister. So, since I couldn't make Maka abandon me or let me die, and I couldn't let her be a fugitive without a weapon, I told the witch to fix my weapon form."

"I argued," Maka whispered angrily. "I tried to convince the witch to do things my way, but she said that it was Soul's body, so it was Soul's choice. I pointed out that Soul would've had her fix his human leg if I didn't plan to help him, but she wouldn't listen. In the end, there was nothing I could do but help as much as I could."

Maka took a few deep, steadying breaths. "Soul ate the witch's soul and transformed into a scythe. Almost his entire shaft was gone, sheared right off. The witch's plan was to meld a new shaft to the old one. She had a substance called black blood that she intended to use to create Soul's new staff. There…was another weapon and meister pair…that she had helped before. They were both dying, so…she…so she…" Maka began to look ill. "She melted down the weapon…and mixed it…into the meister's blood, adding a few spells. Both the weapon and meister lived…in a sense. But she had…" Maka grimaced, "_leftover_ black blood, because the meister's body could not hold the weapon's entire melted down body.

"The witch mixed the black blood with steel so that it would retain a solid shape. She shaped the black blood metal into a scythe shaft and welded it to Soul's weapon form." Maka closed her eyes. "It was…extremely painful for Soul."

"Maka, too," Soul murmured. "She had to be in resonance with me during the process to make sure that my soul connected with the new extension of my body."

"It seemed like the operation was successful," Maka went on. "But…there was an unexpected side effect." Her eyes were haunted. "When Soul returned to his human form, the black blood metal changed it shape in an unpredictable way. Some of the metal became embedded in his skin, like now, but…some buried itself deeper, damaging his organs. The first time he returned to human form, one piece buried itself into his heart. I almost lost him again.

"I overpowered his wavelength and forced him into his scythe shape. The witch devised a powerful spell that would keep the black blood metal from harming him when he entered his human body. But she warned us that the spell would make it much harder for Soul to switch between forms."

Maka ran out of things to say and trailed off into silence. Dr. Stein asked, "Soul did not become trapped as a scythe immediately?"

Maka shook her head. "No. It took a little over three months. We noticed it becoming gradually harder and harder for him to change back. We started looking for help about three weeks before he finally lost the ability to become human, just before Shibusen officially declared us rogue and began to hunt us."

"The witch could do nothing for you?" Stein probed.

"She had done everything within her ability, and we didn't want to ask her for more."

Stein nodded. "One last question: what was the name of the witch who helped you?"

Maka hesitated, biting her lip. Reluctantly, she told him, "Medusa."

Stein turned to look at Lord Death. It was impossible to gauge the Reaper's feelings behind the mask. The God of Death gazed at the teens. "You two may go back to your room," Lord Death said at last. His tone gave nothing away. He did not take his eyes off them as Maka rose and bowed, wincing slightly as her injured ribs twinged, and Soul gave a curt nod that somehow conveyed respect. The two made their way out of the Death Room alone.

"Thoughts, Stein?" Lord Death asked when the youths were gone. The Reaper crossed the platform to stand in front of his mirror.

Stein sighed. "I detected no lies, though the boy's soul flinched slightly when asked how he lost his leg. They are definitely hiding things from us. I would like to know how they came to know a witch, and why she would help them. Little is known about Medusa, but she is rumored to be extremely powerful. Their reluctance to tell us the details of their past is suspicious, but I don't sense any harm in them—only deeply rooted distrust."

"Hmmm," was all Lord Death said. He dismissed Stein, sensing that the doctor was itching to go back to his lab and use his new knowledge for further research and experimentation.

Alone, the God of Death stood in quiet contemplation. His ancient, ageless eyes, lost in the shadows behind his mask, gazed into his mirror, resolving the image on the surface with that hidden in the depths.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I'm not entirely happy with how this turned out, but I'm going to go with it unless I come a better idea. Suggestions (both on improvement of what is already written and on future plot) are always welcome. Your reviews are much cherished!

~ Shenzuul


	3. three

**.three.**

Maka hesitated outside the hospital room, hand on the doorknob. Her mind reeled; she wasn't sure she was ready to face Soul just yet.

Three full days had passed since their interrogation in the Death Room. They had seen only Sid in that time. The nurse had brought them their meals and changes of clothes, conducted physical exams on Soul, and changed Maka's bandages. The first time Soul saw Maka's injuries, he had fallen into a brooding silence that Maka had been unable to draw him out of for the rest of the day. Sid told them that Maka was healing well, but it was obvious that the livid marks would scar her for the rest of her life. Maka had resisted pointing out that Soul had more than his fair share of scars.

The waiting had been agony. In their many hours alone, they had quietly planned for escape, but both knew that such an attempt would be futile. Beyond this, Soul and Maka had spoken little; the atmosphere of the small hospital room was too heavy to permit light conversation. Instead, both were absorbed in their own private thoughts.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Sid had delivered a summons. Lord Death required Maka's presence immediately; Soul was to remain behind. The Death Scythe had argued fiercely, but in the end, he could do nothing about it. Sid had led Maka to the Death Room door, and Maka had passed under the guillotines alone to platform where the Reaper stood waiting.

Maka rested her forehead on the hospital room's door as she replayed that morning's conversation with the God of Death in her mind. Once again, Shinigami-sama had thrown her completely off-guard.

"_Do you have any questions for me, Maka?"_

_Questions? Of course she had questions! Hundreds, thousands of them, clamoring to jump off her tongue, but held in check by her wariness. Why had Shinigami-sama summoned her but not Soul? What was he going to do with them? What would she do if Shinigami-sama decided to hurt Soul? Why did the God of Death look like something out of a child's picture book? Why had she and Soul been so well cared for when they were considered enemies of Shibusen? Would defying Shinigami-sama turn her into a kishin?_

_She was somewhat surprised by the question that slipped out first. "Why didn't you ask us why we betrayed you?" She _had_ been wondering about that ever since he had interrogated her and Soul. But it had hardly seemed the most pressing of her many questions—until she gave voice to it._

_Shinigami looked at her thoughtfully. "Well, there's no obvious answer to such a question, is there? If I asked why you had betrayed me, you might've come up with something to say, but it wouldn't have been the whole story. You wouldn't have been able to really explain if I had asked like that, would you? So I gave you a different way to tell me what I wanted to know."_

"_But…the only question you asked was how Soul had been injured…"_

_She detected a hint of a smile behind Shinigami's reply. "Ah, but with that one question, I drew out a large part of your story. Do you see? It's all in the wording."_

_It was true. Soul and Maka, caught by surprise, had ended up telling the Reaper a great deal more than they had meant to. But..."Did you decide whether we were traitors just from what we told you?"_

"_Hmmm…Well, what do you think? _Are_ the two of you my enemies?"_

_She was taken aback, but once more, she spoke before her mind had entirely caught up with her. "No."_

"_Good, good!" Shinigami said cheerfully. "Glad to hear it! Well, now that that's settled…"_

Maka was still having trouble comprehending the quickness with which she and Soul had been absolved. Surely it couldn't be as easy as affirming their loyalty to the God of Death! They had broken one of the most important mandates of Shibusen. They had evaded their duty; some would go so far as to say that she had "stolen" from Shinigami-sama. But he was treating the whole situation like some minor mishap that could easily be forgiven and forgotten.

"_B-but what about our punishment?"_

_The God of Death tilted his head quizzically. "Punishment?" he repeated. "What punishment?"_

"_Our punishment for betraying you," she explained, frustrated."Aren't you going to—to lock us up, or—or something?"_

"_I don't see what good that would do," Shinigami said musingly._

"_But…but…" she protested weakly, not sure why she was rebelling against what ought to be good news._

_Shinigami chuckled and patted her head as though she was a small child. "No worries, Maka-chan. I'm not going to punish you for doing what you thought was the right thing." His tone changed; she thought he sounded a little sad. "You should know, though…a Shibusen hospital would never have turned you away. And I would never take away the witch's soul that is keeping Soul alive. Shibusen only takes the lives of those who are evil. I hope you understand that."_

Maka's heart wrenched once more as she recalled the words. He made it seem so obvious—and maybe it was, to anyone else. But for her, it was impossible for something like this to be so clear, so simple. Life had taught her the truth, over and over again: she couldn't rely on anyone but herself. She had made an exception for Soul; after all, she knew his soul almost as well as she knew her own. But everyone else had to be kept at a distance, because—intentionally or not—they always hurt her in the end. All their pretty words faded to nothing. They would turn on her, or abandon her.

But she _wanted_ to trust Shinigami-sama. She found herself believing him instinctively. What, after all, was more reliable than the very fact of Death itself? She had pledged her loyalty to the God of Death before she had even met him in person, made it her goal to become the greatest meister ever to ally with Shibusen. It had been the cause that attracted her—causes offered purpose without threatening betrayal. Even if the people who supported the cause failed her, the purpose would never change, never falter; her duty would remain clear.

Maka sighed quietly in frustration. That clarity eluded her now. _Nothing_ was certain anymore. Fate kept throwing things in her path that—she smiled grimly—she didn't know how to _deal_ with.

"_Shinigami-sama, why did you ask Soul to stay behind? This affects him as much as me."_

"_Ah…yes. I have one more thing to discuss with you, Maka-chan. Dr. Stein thought it best that you hear it from me first, alone."_

_She blinked, confused. "Hear what?"_

"_It seems that Dr. Stein has identified your biological father. Tell me, was your mother Kami Albarn?"_

_She went perfectly still. Face stony, she said tonelessly, "The woman who gave birth to me was called Kami. I never found out what her surname was."_

_Shinigami hummed thoughtfully but did not press her for further explanation. "Well, according to Stein, you are the daughter of Spirit Albarn—my current Death Scythe."_

_She narrowed her eyes. "The red-haired man who fought with Dr. Stein?" _

_The God of Death sighed. "Yep, that's the one. I suppose I should warn you that he tends to be very enthusiastic. He is probably waiting for you outside."_

"_Oh." She didn't know what to think, didn't know what to say. It was too sudden. She had...a father? Numbly, she asked, "What does that mean?"_

_Shinigami answered her seriously. "Whatever you want it to. I will not place you in his custody. You have been living independently for several years now, and you will be a legal adult in under a year, anyway." The God of Death watched her struggle with that news for a few moments before gently telling her, "You may leave now, if you are ready. That was all I had to talk to you about."_

_She bowed, expressionless, and left the Death Room._

Enthusiastic, Maka thought wryly, proved a highly inadequate adjective. Ebullient, perhaps. Overly exuberant. Effervescent, maybe.

"_MAKAAAAAAAAAAAA!"_

_The moment the Death Room door shut behind her, a loud wailing assaulted her ears, and she spotted a blur of red racing down the hallway. She reflexively dodged to the side, ribs complaining at the quick movement, and stared as a full grown man crashed headlong into the door she had just closed. Tears cascading down his cheeks, the red-haired man turned aquamarine eyes on her from his position on the floor. He beamed at her through his loud sniffles and stretched his arms up towards her as if to embrace her. "Makaaaaa," he burbled. "My beautiful baby girl!"_

_She stepped back, eyes huge. His face fell tragically at this sign of rejection. "Maka!" he cried. "Don't you know me? I'm your Papa!"_

_She shook her head vehemently, denying it. "But I am!" he insisted petulantly, scrambling to his feet. He smiled at her hopefully, looking for all the world like a begging dog. "I'm your very own Papa!" Before she could escape, he caught her up in his arms and squeezed. She gasped in pain as he crushed her injuries._

"_But…you…tried to…kill us!" she choked out, barely able to breathe. The man began to sob noisily into her shoulder._

"_Papa is so sorry, Maka! Papa didn't know you were his daughter! Papa would never, ever hurt you! Never!" he wailed._

"_You're…hurting me now!" she wheezed. Immediately the Death Scythe let go, an almost comical expression of horror on his face._

"_Papa's sorry! Papa's sorry!" he yelped. He gasped with a sudden idea. "Papa will carry you back to the infirmary!"_

"_No!" she shouted, sidestepping to evade his attempt to grab her. Her tone brought the Death Scythe to an abrupt halt. She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. "No, I—no! I can't handle this! You're _not_ my father! I don't have a family!"_

_The Death Scythe fell to his knees in front of her. "But don't you see?" he pleaded. "You _do_ have family now! I don't know—" His voice hitched, and he swallowed convulsively. "I don't know what happened to Kami, but I'm here for you! You'll come live with me, and I'll take care of you—!"_

_Again, she stepped back, shaking her head fiercely. "No," she said harshly. "You don't get it at all." Her eyes burned. "Kami—Kami_ Albarn_—abandoned me when I was seven years old. She left me on the doorstep of an orphanage and told me she'd be back for me later. She wrote to me three times—sent me pretty little postcards that were _supposed_ to be for my birthday. She couldn't even remember how old I was, the last time she wrote._

"_I learned my lesson, living in that rat hole. You have to take care of yourself. I do not acknowledge you as my father—_Soul _is my only family."_

_And with those words, she turned and left, leaving the stunned man kneeling on the cold floor in the empty corridor._

And that was the real reason Maka was standing out in the hallway, trying to compose herself. She had already decided not to tell Soul about this final piece of news. Not yet, at least. Not while the emotions it had stirred up were so fresh. Soul had enough on his plate without having to deal with her…_family issues._ Maka grimaced at the phrase.

At last, she straightened, steeling herself. She schooled her features into an expression that she hoped fit her tidings at least passably and opened the door.

Soul sat in his bed, leaning back against his pillows. Lost in thought, he absently rubbed his thumb over the smooth back of the teardrop-shaped amulet around his neck. He looked up as Maka entered. "So, what's the verdict?" he drawled. The partially-concealed anxiety in his eyes belied his casual tone.

"I think…I think we're going to be okay!" Maka told him, managing to smile genuinely. Soul's shoulders sagged in relief as Maka crossed the room and dropped into the chair by Soul's bed that she had inhabited for the last week and a half. She sighed, happy to be off her feet.

"C'mon, Maka, could you be any more vague?" Soul groused, pulling himself away from his pillows and leaning towards her. "Tell me what he said."

"Shinigami-sama says that you are to remain a Death Scythe," Maka explained. "You'll be registered at Shibusen and enrolled in both regular classes and special training just for Death Scythes. He wants us to stay at this branch of Shibusen…at the main school. You'll be just like a regular Death Scythe, except…" Maka hesitated, suddenly afraid of how he might react.

"Except _what_, Maka?" asked Soul, eyes narrowing. "Spit it out."

Maka bit her lip. "Except…you're not going to be Shinigami-sama's weapon. I will remain your meister."

In the sudden silence, the steady beeping of Soul's heart monitor and the quiet humming of machines seemed especially loud. Maka shifted slightly in her chair, the rustling of fabric clearly audible. Soul stared at her, expression unreadable. Slowly, he turned away, his eyes gazing unseeingly at the wall straight ahead of him. Maka watched him uneasily, shoulders tense.

"…It's because I'm crippled, isn't it?"

Maka flinched and looked down, not replying. Soul's hands clenched. The air between them was thick with tension. Maka could barely breathe.

Without warning, Soul swiveled around and slammed his palms down on the bed between himself and Maka. "Tell them you won't do it!" Soul hissed. Maka started at his forcefulness and looked up into his blazing eyes. "Tell them you want a different weapon!" His shoulders shook with rage.

"W-_why?_" Maka felt her own anger spark. "Are you tired of being my weapon?" she asked bitterly.

"No," Soul denied in a heartbeat.

"Then why are you getting so upset?" snapped Maka, eyes filling with hurt fury. "Is it because you wanted to be Shinigami-sama's weapon?"

"_No!"_ shouted Soul. "It's because they're making it _impossible_ for you to let me go! I'm a _crippled weapon,_ Maka! You'll never get anywhere with a weapon like me! _I'm holding you back!"_

Maka stood abruptly, knocking her chair back. She grabbed the amulet around Soul's neck and yanked it harshly, dragging him forward until their faces were a scant inch apart. _"You're_ holding _me_ back?" she demanded, her voice dangerously quiet.

The silence stretched out as the two gazed into one another's eyes, one pair icy emeralds, the other flaming rubies. The amulet, clenched in Maka's fist, hung between them. Neither moved or blinked.

At last, Soul closed his eyes and made a quiet sound of irritation. He caught his amulet with one hand and used the other to shove Maka's hand away. Letting the pendant thump down against his chest, he crossed his arms and looked away from his meister. "You fight dirty," he muttered.

"Like you don't," retorted Maka, throwing herself into her chair. They glowered at one another, still simmering.

Stein watched them a few moments longer before soundlessly closing the door, unnoticed. "Interesting," he said to himself, chuckling quietly as he walked away. He would come back later, when things had cooled down a bit.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This is about most of the length most of the chapters will be. I don't know why the first two chapters turned out so long, but that's definitely not normal for me. A più tardi!

~Shenzuul


	4. four

**.four.**

Dr. Stein leaned against the wall of the large underground sparring room, smoking a cigarette. His sharp eyes, alight with interest, never strayed from the action played out before him. The soft _whoosh_ as he exhaled a stream of smoke was lost amid the loud crashes, thuds, and screeches ringing from the makeshift battlefield. A hand absently reached up to twist the screw in his head.

"Enjoying the show, Stein?" A tall woman with rich, dark skin and dreadlocked hair pulled up in a ponytail vaulted easily over the barrier separating the sparring ring from the warm-up and observation area. Baggy military-issue pants hanging from her hips and heavy bandages wound around her face, chest, and arms served only to accentuate her lithe beauty. Ignoring the sounds of the fierce fight still raging behind her, the woman strode toward the doctor, not so much as twitching when a large rock hurtled past her head and shattered on the ground a few feet in front of her.

"Immensely," Stein said in response to her question. "Taking a break, Nygus?"

The woman shrugged, leaning against the wall beside him. "_I'm_ not the one in training," she drawled, following his gaze. Both were silent for a few moments as they watched a particularly intense moment on the sparring field. _**BOOM.**_ The floor shook, and dust sprinkled down from the ceiling.

"What do you think?" Nygus asked.

Stein blew a smoke skull and watched it dissipate before deigning to reply. "They've improved at an incredible rate. I knew the meister was holding back when we first fought, but I still would've given her a good ten years of training before she could pose a real threat to me. Now, I'd say she could reach that level in three, maybe even two."

Nygus raised an eyebrow. "She held back against you?"

Stein snorted. "Not one of the moves she demonstrated in that fight would have been enough to take down a witch," he told Nygus. "And she didn't once aim a fatal blow at me. Her goal was to disable me, not to kill me."

"And the weapon?"

The doctor's eyes glinted. "I find his progress fascinating. I'm not sure that there is another person who could imitate that style of fighting." His hands twitched involuntarily. "I would love to test it further."

"They join the main student body in two days," Nygus observed.

"Yes…" Stein's thin lips twisted up into a smile that made the hairs on the back of Nygus' neck stand on end. In the two months that had passed since Lord Death's pronouncement, the doctor had taken very little part in the training of the DWMA's new students, contenting himself with observation, but Nygus had the distinct feeling that this would change dramatically in two days.

The dark-skinned woman sighed and shoved herself away from the wall. "I'd better go bail out Justin; he's starting to look a bit worse for the wear."

* * *

><p>Black*Star lounged in his seat, tilting the chair back until it balanced on its hind legs. He propped his feet on the desk, crossing his ankles, and folded his hands behind his head. He had strategically chosen to sit in the place where the sunlight pouring through the classroom's window would show him to his best advantage, highlighting his brilliant blue hair and emphasizing every line of his godlike physique. He knew that the eyes of every other student in the classroom were upon him, reveling in his awesomeness, but he studiously ignored them.<p>

"What's taking him so long?" Black*Star whined to the girl sitting beside him, staring at the ceiling. "A big guy like me shouldn't have to waste time waiting for some dumb teacher."

A small smile lit the soft features of Black*Star's neighbor. Tall and curvaceous, with a long ponytail of raven-colored hair, Tsubaki, a shadow weapon, was as beautiful as she was dangerous. "I'm sure Dr. Stein will be here soon," Tsubaki assured her meister gently.

"He better be, or I'm gonna ditch," Black*Star grumped. Tsubaki laughed lightly, hoping he was kidding, though the voice of experience told her it was not so.

Black*Star was the first to hear the noise issuing from the hallway. His head perked a little as he angled his ears to catch the sound slightly better, but he gave no other indication of having heard anything. It was a few moments before the noise became audible to the other members of his class. When the students picked up on the rattling of wheels racing across linoleum, they began to mutter among themselves. "Oh, this again," sighed one, slightly louder than the others. The comment was received by several commiserating nods.

All eyes trained on the doorway as the sound of wheels grew louder, signaling their imminent arrival. At any moment Dr. Stein would come hurtling through the door on his swivel chair, only to have the chair trip over the threshold and fall to the ground. They were used to his dramatic entrances by now; they awaited his arrival with bored disinterest.

However, jaded as they were to bizarre events, all were astonished when, not Stein, but a complete stranger blasted through the doorway at breakneck speed. Just before crashing into the threshold, the stranger thrust his body back in his chair, tilting it crazily onto its back wheels, then lunged forward, slamming the front wheels onto the floor and lifting the back wheels to clear the raised bar of metal. Somehow, he managed to regain his stability, but the wheeled chair skidded wildly across the classroom. The stranger jammed a foot into the ground, bringing himself to an abrupt halt at the dead center of the room, back to the students. He spun himself around with lightning speed to face them, flashing a shark-toothed smirk at the rows and rows of stunned faces.

"Hey. I'm Soul Eater, your new classmate."

A chorus of quickly muffled gasps filled the air as the students got a good look at the self-proclaimed Soul Eater. The boy sat in a modified wheelchair, one leg a mere stump around which his gray jeans had been neatly pinned. His wild hair was snow white, and his blood red eyes sparkled in dark amusement as they stared. Scraps of metal were embedded in the skin on the right side of his face, and more glinted on the parts of his neck and right hand visible underneath his high-collared, black leather jacket. An exotic amulet hung from a black thong around his neck.

Black*Star sat up and glowered at this new guy. Just who did he think he was, making a scene like that and drawing attention away from the godly Black*Star? The ninja opened his mouth to yell out a challenge, but he was interrupted by the renewed sound of wheels racing down the hallway outside the classroom. Eyes dragged themselves away from Soul Eater with reluctance and fixed on the doorway. Moments later, Stein appeared on his rolling chair. He promptly crashed into the threshold; his chair tipped, and the mad doctor spilled onto the ground.

Soul Eater eyed the fallen Stein and raised an eyebrow. "That…was really pathetic," he commented to no one in particular.

Only a few of the most observant students noticed when another person slipped through the open door. Black*Star gave her a cursory glance, taking in her dull blond pigtails, _very_ short skirt, and combat boots, before turning his attention back on the white-haired interloper.

The girl spoke, and the rest of the class finally noticed her presence. "Soul wins," she said drily to Stein.

Making no effort to rise from where he lay sprawled on the floor, Stein lazily waved a hand in the air. "I suppose that will teach me to race someone who uses a wheelchair. Now, why don't you go ahead and introduce yourself to everyone?"

Maka glanced up to find thirty-two pairs of eyes focusing on her. She didn't flinch from the calculating looks but squared her shoulders and announced firmly, "I'm Maka, scythe technician. Soul's my partner." She gestured to the boy at whom Black*Star was still scowling. "We're in your class from now on." A few people nodded hesitantly, and a handful mumbled greetings. Unperturbed by the lackluster welcome, Maka claimed an empty seat in the front row. Soul Eater took his place beside her. Parking his wheelchair in the aisle, he stood on his single leg, grabbed his chair, and easily slid into it. The other students watched his movements with an almost morbid fascination.

The new students had chosen to sit right below Black*Star, giving him an unobstructed view of them. He spent the entirety of Stein's class staring intensely down at Soul Eater's head, not hearing a word of the lesson (not that this was an unusual occurrence). The white-haired weapon shifted in his seat a few times as though he could feel the ninja's eyes burning into his back. _That's right, squirm,_ Black*Star thought at the new kid. _I'll deal with you soon._

* * *

><p>When the bell rang, marking the end of class, Maka and Soul Eater were among the first out the door. Black*Star sprang out of his seat and raced after them. "Black*Star!" called Tsubaki anxiously, struggling to keep up with him. Black*Star burst into the crowded hallway and began to shoulder his way through the throng of students. Tsubaki followed, pausing briefly to apologize to the bruised people left in her meister's wake.<p>

Black*Star found his quarry in front of the school where they, like many of the other students, were taking advantage of the fair weather to eat their lunches outside. They sat side by side on the topmost of the steps leading up to the entrance of the DWMA, with Soul Eater's wheelchair parked just behind them. The meister, Maka, picked at her food, apparently more interested in the book perched on her lap than in her lunch or her partner. Soul Eater, by contrast, wolfed down his food voraciously, his sole focus on satiating his monstrous appetite. Neither seemed to notice that they were the object of a great deal of attention, ignoring both the stares and whispers thrown in their direction.

Neither patience nor subtlety had ever counted themselves among Black*Star's strengths. "Hey, you!" the ninja bellowed the moment he caught sight of his nemesis. "New kid! Soul Eater! I want to fight you!"

Instantly, Black*Star commanded the attention of all present. His fellow students were used to his demands for random fights, but all were curious to see how the weapon in the wheelchair would react. "B-Black*Star…" Tsubaki protested weakly. "It's his first day of school…surely…."

Black*Star ignored his weapon partner, crossing his arms and glaring at Soul Eater, who had yet to turn around. "No one steals my spotlight and lives to get away with it!" the ninja yelled. "I'm going to thrash you for everyone to see!"

The white-haired weapon popped his last bite of lunch into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and languidly lifted himself into his wheelchair. Unhurriedly, he wheeled around to face Black*Star. The watching students held their breath. "You want a fight?" the scythe repeated. "All right. Sounds cool."

There was a mad scramble as people hastily cleared a large space around the shadow technician and the scythe weapon. Black*Star grinned and held out an open hand. "Tsubaki. Ninja sword mode!"

"Right," Tsubaki said immediately. She still sounded worried, but she obeyed her meister without hesitation, transforming into a short blade of Japanese design. Her hilt settled gently into Black*Star's outstretched palm.

"Are you ready to go down?" Black*Star asked. "Really, you should be honored that a big guy like me is even bothering with small fry like you. I'm the one who's going to beat the gods! You don't stand a chance!"

Soul Eater waited patiently for the tirade to end, a slight eye roll at the conclusion of the speech his only reaction. "Whenever you're ready," he drawled.

Black*Star frowned. "What about your meister?"

Soul Eater blinked, genuinely surprised. "Huh? You mean Maka?" He craned his head to look over his shoulder. Maka still sat on the school steps, absorbed in her book. She had not moved when the rest of the students had cleared the area in anticipation of the fight. "Yo, Maka!" the scythe called. "Wanna join us?"

The meister closed her eyes in irritation and shut her book with a sharp snap. "I'm not getting into a brawl on the first day of school," she told her weapon coldly.

Soul Eater shrugged. "Thought not." Maka glared at him, stood, and walked away. The ring of students watching the confrontation quickly parted before her, and she disappeared into the school. Soul Eater turned back to Black*Star. "Looks like you're only getting me," he said.

In a rare moment of inner conflict, Black*Star paused before leaping into action. He hadn't expected the weapon to fight him _alone._ Even the belligerent ninja had a bit of a problem taking on a guy in a wheelchair. Maybe the new kid had never heard of Black*Star…? No, that was absurd. Obviously he was insane, or just plain _stupid._ Black*Star would take him out in seconds! Soul Eater never would have stood a chance against the might of Black*Star, but at least with his meister, it would have been a _sort _of fair fight. Alone, though, the guy was defenseless!

But then…the new kid was the one who had suggested this. If he got creamed, it was _his _fault. It wasn't like Black*Star was going to hurt him…badly, at any rate. And in the end, did it really matter how quickly it was over? The result would be the same either way: utter humiliation for the cocky bastard, and victory for Black*Star! The ninja perked up considerably.

**Black*Star?** Tsubaki asked anxiously, only able to sense a little bit of what was running through her meister's mind.

"It's okay, Tsubaki," Black*Star said in a low voice. Raising his voice, he shouted, "Let's do this!"

Soul grinned crookedly, revealing his jagged teeth. "Bring it on," he murmured as Black*Star charged.

Maka, whose return to the scene had passed unnoticed, crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes as she watched Black*Star pound across the pavement toward her partner. Behind her, Dr. Stein idly adjusted his glasses on his nose.

"HYAAAAAAH!" shouted Black*Star, leaping forward to slash down at his opponent. Soul Eater watched him with impassive ruby eyes—and suddenly wasn't there.

Soul Eater kicked off the ground a split second before Black*Star reached him, sending the wheelchair careening backwards. Black*Star landed heavily, but his shock at missing lasted barely a second before he was off, chasing down his enemy. Soul Eater slammed down his heel and threw both of his specially designed brakes. The wheelchair stopped instantly. Black*Star, unprepared for the abrupt halt, skidded but still attempted to dive into his next attack. There was a flash of light as Soul Eater's right arm transformed into a long, black and red scythe blade. He parried Black*Star's unbalanced swipe with ease, knocking Tsubaki right out of the ninja's hands. Immediately, Black*Star executed a set of perfect back flips, snatching his weapon out of the air before she could hit the ground. He looked back toward his enemy just in time to see Soul Eater slam his wheelchair into his side. Caught completely off guard, Black*Star flew backward and landed ungracefully on his butt.

Growling in rage, Black*Star sprang back up with surprising speed and snapped, "Tsubaki! Chain scythe mode!" A white glow enveloped the short blade in his hand, and a moment later, a pair of small scythes connected by a chain had replaced it. Black*Star charged Soul Eater once more, kusarigama raised. The white-haired weapon raised a scythe blade arm in preparation to block, but instead of aiming for the weapon, Black*Star threw one of the scythes of the kusarigama at one of Soul Eater's wheels. Too late, Soul Eater realized Black*Star's intent and tried to swerve out of the way, but the movement only served to entangle Tsubaki's chain in the wheel's spokes, bringing Soul Eater to a jarring halt.

With a fierce grin of triumph, Black*Star launched himself at his now immobilized opponent. Soul Eater scowled and threw his weight to the side of his wheelchair, tipping it over. Black*Star missed his intended target by hairsbreadth and found himself staring at the underside of the wheelchair. Soul Eater, holding himself barely an inch off the ground with one arm, shoved off roughly. The wheelchair righted itself. Black*Star dodged a moment too late; one wheel crushed his foot mercilessly. Black*Star howled and tore away, hopping on his good foot while holding the bruised appendage tenderly.

**Black*Star!** cried Tsubaki in warning. The ninja yanked himself back, barely escaping a sweep from Soul Eater's blade.

"Smoke bomb!" Black*Star ground out. The flash of light accompanying Tsubaki's transformation was lost as she transformed into a cloud of smoke that obscured everything in the immediate vicinity. Black*Star stumbled out of the billowing smoke and tried to regain his grip on a battle that was quickly going downhill.

"Chain scythe mode," Black*Star ordered Tsubaki tersely. The smoke wound itself into a narrow stream that shaped itself into the chain scythe and settled into Black*Star's hands. The shadow technician glared at Soul Eater, who met the glower serenely. "Don't get too confident, loser!" Black*Star yelled. "A few lousy tricks won't be enough to help you beat a god like me!"

"Yeah, yeah," Soul Eater replied, bored. Loosing a battle cry, Black*Star stormed forward. Soul Eater shifted, reading his scythe blade. Metal met metal with a thunderous crash; the battle recommenced.

Black*Star was incredibly strong and fast. His recklessness as a fighter often made him difficult to predict, and with the combination of Tsubaki's numerous weapon forms and his own skill in hand-to-hand combat, he had an incredibly versatile array of moves. Although his tendency to brag loudly and incessantly about himself was a major weakness that had severely crippled his efforts to collect pre-kishin souls, he was widely acknowledged as one of the DWMA's top student fighters, and few could equal him in one-on-one combat.

But Black*Star had never encountered an opponent like Soul Eater before. The scythe weapon had adapted his natural speed and agility to suit an incredible fighting style centered on his wheelchair. Adaptations to the chair's design allowed Soul Eater to start, stop, and turn with ease. His perfect sense of balance allowed him to tilt his wheelchair in any direction to dodge and even attack without upending himself. Although he lacked Black*Star's sheer muscle mass, there was strength hidden in his slim frame, and he had honed his control over his weapon form so well that he could summon blades from any part of his body as rapidly as a thought could cross the mind. He had modified standard kicks and punches to work from a sitting position that were almost as powerful as attacks executed from the usual combat stances.

"I can't believe it," murmured a student standing near Maka as Soul Eater pressed down on the arms of his wheelchair to lift his body and strike at Black*Star with a lightning-fast kick.

"What is not to believe?" countered a cool, precise voice. "Can't you tell? Our new classmate is a Death Scythe."Astonished exclamations met this announcement. Maka spared a brief glance for the speaker. Gleaming gold eyes caught her own. They belonged to a tall, pale boy impeccably dressed in an elegant black suit. His jet-black hair, neatly trimmed, was interrupted by three horizontal white lines that curved around the left side of his head. "Am I correct?" the boy asked Maka. She nodded curtly and returned her gaze to the fight.

Black*Star, frustrated in his attempts to hit Soul Eater directly, once more aimed for the scythe's wheels. Soul Eater fended off the first few attacks, but Black*Star managed to snare the left wheel with a clever feint. Certain of victory, he bore down on his enemy, this time careful to prevent Soul Eater from tilting his wheelchair or otherwise evading. "You're about to go down under the mighty Black*Star!" the ninja shouted, grinning fiercely.

That was when Soul Eater stood.

The was one infinite second in which one could see his muscles coiling, starting down at his single foot and spreading up through his calf and thigh, then his abdomen and back.

And then he pushed off the ground.

And tackled Black*Star.

Colliding with the ninja in midair.

The two hit the ground with an impressive crash. Soul Eater grabbed Black*Star by the front of his shirt, flipped him over, and slammed his back into the cement once again. He jabbed the stump of his right leg into Black*Star's chest to pin him down and transformed his left arm into a scythe blade, which he leveled at the ninja's throat.

"I win," Soul Eater declared.

Black*Star let his head fall with a hard thump.

Tsubaki quickly returned to her human form. Her instincts urged her to run straight to her meister's side, but first she grabbed Soul Eater's wheelchair and brought it back to him. The scythe nodded to her as he lifted himself back into his seat. Tsubaki knelt beside Black*Star, hovering over him uncertainly. The ninja looked past her unseeingly. _I…lost,_ he thought uncomprehendingly. _I…lost…?_

"Hey."

Both Black*Star and Tsubaki looked up. Soul Eater leaned forward in his wheelchair, one hand extended towards Black*Star. The ninja stared at the hand. "You're pretty good," Soul Eater told Black*Star. "If you had taken me seriously, things might have turned out differently."

_If you had taken me seriously…_

"Y…eah…" Black*Star said slowly. A look of dawning revelation illuminated his face. "Yeah…Yeah! I was going _easy_ on you!" His face split into a wide grin. He grabbed Soul Eater's hand enthusiastically and sprang to his feet. "I _let_ you win!"

Soul Eater blinked. "That's not what I…"

Ignoring him, Black*Star clapped him on the shoulder, laughing loudly. "I like you, Soul Eater! But next time we fight, I won't let you off so easily! Next time, I'll unleash the _real_ might of Black*Star! Ahahahahaha!"

Soul Eater's lips twitched with amusement. "It's just Soul."

Black*Star's grin, if possible, grew wider. "Hey, Soul, you up for basketball after school?"

Soul smirked. "Only if you're ready to get crushed again."

"HA! AS IF!"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>This looked sooooooo much better in my head than it does on pa—screen. Feel free to mock me. Go on, flame me. I dare you.

~ Shenzuul


	5. five

**.five.**

Maka's eyes softened slightly as she watched the interaction between the obnoxious blue-haired ninja and her partner. It seemed that this Black*Star had already brushed off his loss at Soul's hands and was claiming him as a friend. _Only Soul,_ Maka thought with the tiniest of smiles. _People are drawn to him._ When the scythe glanced in her direction, Maka immediately hardened her expression, scowling at him. She couldn't let him think she condoned brawling at school. Soul grinned at her, seeing through her act. He knew she was proud of him.

The students who had watched were abuzz, excitedly discussing the fight. Maka ignored them, keeping her eyes fixed on her partner, currently fending off Black*Star, who was trying to ruffle his hair. Behind her, Dr. Stein commented, "It looks like it is over. I'm going back in. I know the school rules say that any teacher can serve as witness to a student fight, Maka, but you should get me again when it involves either Soul or yourself." Maka nodded her assent and heard Stein walk away.

"Maka, right?"

Maka turned her head. It was the boy with the golden eyes and whites stripes in his hair. "I am Death the Kid," he introduced himself, bowing slightly. "But most simply call me Kid."

Startled, Maka asked, "You're Shinigami-sama's son?"

Kid smiled. "Indeed." He gestured to a girl standing beside him that Maka had not noticed before. "May I introduce you to my weapon, Elizabeth Thompson?"

The girl rolled her eyes. "It's _Liz_," she corrected. "Nice to meet you, Maka."

"You, too," Maka replied cautiously, shaking the girl's proffered hand. Liz Thompson was a few inches shorter than Death the Kid, with waist-length hair the color of straw and sky blue eyes. She wore tight jeans that sat low on her hips and a midriff-baring top that barely contained her well-endowed chest. Boots, a short tie, and a cowboy hat completed her outfit.

"If you don't mind my asking, Maka," Kid began, "why didn't you participate? Obviously Soul Eater can take care of himself, but most partnered weapons fight with their meisters even if they are capable of going solo."

Maka sighed. "I don't get into stupid fights." _Technically, it's true,_ she thought.

But it wasn't the real reason she had held back. Even if the reasons Black*Star had given for instigating the fight were stupid, its true purpose hadn't been. For Soul, it had been a fight to prove himself. She had known that at some point, he would have to show his classmates that he wasn't someone they could walk all over just because he was confined to a wheelchair. Maka had left him to this fight so that he could demonstrate at least a portion of his true strength. She didn't want anyone to make the mistake of believing that Soul _needed_ her. They were partners: equals. They relied on one another only because it made both of them better than they already were.

"Hmm." Kid gazed at Maka intently, as though he sensed that she hadn't given him a complete answer, but didn't question her further.

"You're Soul Eater's partner, aren't you." Something about the voice made Maka bristle. She looked over Kid's shoulder at a boy who was elbowing his way through the crowd to approach her. His bald scalp gleamed between two gelled spikes of hair that jutted up behind his ears. He wore a pair of circular glasses, through which he peered at Maka with an air of haughtiness.

Before Maka could open her mouth, a familiar voice growled, "Yeah, she's mine. Who are you?"

"Ox Ford," came the curt reply. Ox Ford kept his eyes on Maka, not deigning to look at Soul, who had just appeared at Maka's side. "Is it true that your weapon is a Death Scythe?"

Irritated by the challenge in his tone, Maka snapped, "Does no one around here have Soul Perception? Look for yourself!"

Ox narrowed his eyes. "I did," he retorted. "But if he is a true Death Scythe, why are _you_ his meister?" He didn't give Maka a chance to respond. "Was he not good enough for Lord Death? I suppose the Reaper has no use for crippled weapons."

With a snarl, Maka sprang forward, fully prepared to do murder. "Maka, no!" shouted Soul. He jumped out of his wheelchair. Catching her from behind, he trapped her arms beneath his and held on tightly. Maka stilled instantly, knowing that if she yanked herself out of his grip, he would fall. "I thought you weren't getting into fights on the first day of school," Soul reminded her roughly. "Just ignore him! He's a bastard—not even worth your time."

Ox sneered at them, turned on his heel, and stalked away. Maka breathed in deeply and exhaled violently, but she allowed her tensed muscles to relax. Soul gingerly loosened his hold on her. "It's okay," Maka muttered. "I'm not going to chase him down." Relieved, Soul released her and returned to his wheelchair.

Death the Kid was staring at Ox's retreating back. "Ox is not an easy person to get along with," he said thoughtfully, "but he usually does not act like that. I wonder if he is jealous that you have already succeeded in creating a Death Scythe."

"That's hardly an excuse for his behavior," snapped Maka. Visibly struggling to reign in her temper, she said, "Soul, these are Kid and his weapon Liz. Kid, Liz, this is Soul." She allowed no time for the exchange of pleasantries before adding, "Class is about to start. I'm going in." Without another word, she strode away. Soul smiled crookedly at Kid and Liz and followed his technician.

* * *

><p>"You failed to mention that the new students are a Death Scythe and, apparently, his meister."<p>

"Ah, Kiddo!" Lord Death turned away from his mirror to face his son. "Hello! How's school going?"

Death the Kid ignored the trivialities. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, frowning.

"Hmmm," mused Lord Death. "I suppose it was because I wanted you to make your own first impression of them."

The young reaper crossed his arms. "I do not see why my opinion of _them_ matters. I need to know why you have chosen to let an ordinary meister control a Death Scythe. Even Dr. Stein, who is paired with Spirit Albarn for almost all missions, is not considered the official technician of a Death Scythe."

Lord Death chuckled. "Maka-chan is hardly an ordinary meister, Kiddo."

The furrow in Kid's brow deepened. "Neither is Dr. Stein. And, quite frankly, I did not see anything particularly special about her soul."

Death the Kid could hear the smile in his father's voice. "What _did_ you notice about her?"

"She is symmetrical," Kid automatically replied. He paused. "She…seems to be very loyal to her weapon. I do not think she makes friends easily. There is more to what she is thinking than what she says aloud," he added.

"And perhaps more to what she is than what she shows," suggested Lord Death.

Death the Kid glared. "Is Soul Eater the rogue Death Scythe?" he asked bluntly.

Lord Death cocked his head. "Possibly."

Exasperated, Kid demanded, "What _will_ you tell me about them?"

"Not much," Lord Death admitted cheerfully. "If you want answers, maybe you should try getting to know them."

Kid sighed, sensing that his father had made up his mind. Further argument would be futile. "Yes, Father." He bowed respectfully and turned to go.

"Oh, Kid?"

"Yes, Father?"

"You needn't worry. They do not mean any harm."

"…Yes, Father."

* * *

><p>"Agghh," Kid moaned, banging his head against the wall. "Get to know them? Get to know them? How does one 'get to know' someone?"<p>

Death the Kid was really not very good at interacting with people. His weapon was the one exception. His relationship with her had just…well…_happened._ He briefly pondered whether he might "get to know" Maka and Soul Eater if he just "let things happen," but decided such laxity was unlikely to succeed. There must be some sort of strategy he could utilize. He scoured his brain for information about human relationships that might help him.

People seemed to spend a lot of time with the ones they called friends. Perhaps the reverse was true, as well? If you spent a lot of time with someone, you would become friends? …Yes, that made sense to Kid. And friends had to talk to one another a lot, so they had to find common ground….Well, they all attended the DWMA, did they not? Surely they would have multiple subjects of common interest to discuss.

That basically covered Kid's knowledge of friendship, but it didn't seem a lot to work with. All right, then…what about friendliness? The words shared an etymological root, so there must be some connection. Friendliness….involved a lot of smiling. And being helpful. And...more talking.

Death the Kid sighed. In theory, it should be simple, but in his limited experience, anything that involved humans always wound up far more _complex_ than it seemed it ought to be. He had recently enrolled in his father's school so that he could observe humans more closely and learn how to connect with them, but so far he had succeeded only in becoming more confused. Some days, he felt like hiding in the mansion his father had given him and losing himself in the arrangement and appreciation of his beloved symmetry. Symmetry was absolutely precise and predictable; it was both an art and a science; it was the epitome of beauty; it followed set rules that did not change from day to day or circumstance to circumstance; it was a balm to Kid's soul.

The young reaper allowed himself a few moments to dreamily catalogue the wonders of symmetry before reluctantly dragging his mind to the task at hand. Getting to know Maka and Soul…right. He sighed for the second time in less than five minutes. He had been set a truly difficult task. His father had asked him about first impressions; well, Kid had been struck by the cautiousness in their eyes. Oh, they seemed quite amiable, but he had the distinct feeling that they did not trust easily. And he had learned from his weapon that trust was key. He smiled slightly. Ah, so there was another thing he knew about friendship.

How had he and his partner built their trust? Thoughtful, Kid reviewed his past with her. Actually, a great deal of their trust had come from fighting pre-kishins together. They had learned to put their lives in one another's hands. An idea blossomed.

Missions. Kid could invite them to complete missions with him. And that would mean spending plenty of time with one another, and talking often about subjects that were important to them all. Plus, offering to help with their missions counted as being helpful, and as for smiling…well, he could practice.

Satisfied with his plan, Kid straightened and strode purposefully down the hallway. Soon he would "get to know" his two new classmates, piecing together the puzzle that had so enthralled him.

* * *

><p>Soul gazed up at the six-story building dubiously. "I seriously hope we're on the first floor," he said.<p>

"Nygus set us up with this apartment personally," Maka reminded Soul. "I'm sure it'll work out for us."

"Yeah…"

One month after their arrival at the DWMA, Maka and Soul had been officially discharged from the school hospital. Since they had nowhere to go, the school had lodged them in the Subterra, a series of rooms and corridors beneath the school that went largely unused except for storage. Few students ventured to the underground part of the school, but a few of the teachers trained privately in the large, empty rooms the Subterra provided.

For the next two months, Maka and Soul had been kept separate from the rest of the student body. What began as an evaluation of their skills had evolved into a full-blown specialized training program. Nygus, one of the teachers at the main branch, had headed the program, but other teachers and DWMA affiliates from all over the world had come to participate. Maka's natural talent had astounded them, more so when they discovered that all of what she knew she had come up with on her own or learned straight from books. Her time in the Subterra was spent expanding her repertoire of techniques and sparring with other skilled meisters.

Soul had become the object of great fascination. In the short period between the loss of his leg and his entrapment in his weapon form, he and Maka had already begun developing a form of fighting that worked around his new limitations. With the help of the DWMA's professionals, Soul's unique style was expanded upon and improved. Intrigued engineers had designed a special wheelchair to increase his mobility and make better use of Soul's physical strengths. By the end of two months, Soul was able to hold his own even against Justin Law, a Death Scythe who had fought alone since the death of his meister during their seventy-second mission.

During the time before their official entrance into the DWMA, Nygus had thought it best that they keep out of sight. But now that Maka and Soul were part of the student body, the strict but not unkind teacher had decided that they ought to share the same privileges as the other students; that is, they ought to be allowed their own apartment in Death City rather than be confined to the Subterra. Nygus had set them up with a place to stay and explained that they would easily be able to pay rent with their earnings from missions and the salary allotted to Soul for his Death Scythe status.

Their apartment was indeed on the first floor. Soul examined the brass number 037 while Maka dug through her book bag for the keys Nygus had given her. She handed one copy to Soul and unlocked the door with her own. Cautiously, she stepped inside and felt along the wall for a light switch.

The apartment was small but comfortable. The front door led into a living area. To the right, a kitchen was divided from the rest of the room by a long, smooth counter. Opposite the front door, an arch opened into a hallway that ran parallel to the corridor outside the apartment. Down the corridor to the left and right were two bedrooms; a bathroom was nestled between them. The floors were all covered in cheap but clean carpets or slightly worn floorboards. The walls were whitewashed. Nygus had had the apartment furnished with some basic things—twin beds, an old couch, a small TV, a few lamps, a rickety kitchen table—but Maka and Soul would be free to do what they pleased as far as decoration once they had settled in.

Maka dropped the bags containing their few belongings on the floor near the door while Soul shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the couch. They examined their new lodgings, carefully avoiding one another's eyes. An awkward silence hung between them. Maka, hands clasped behind her back uncomfortably, was just about to venture down the hall to explore the bedrooms when Soul spoke.

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

Maka swallowed and slowly turned to face her partner. Soul stared at her, expression serious. She found that she had difficulty looking directly into his probing crimson eyes; her gaze kept shifting to the shard of metal that sliced through his right eyebrow. "I…" Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I didn't want to burden you with my problems."

Soul snorted. "You really thought you'd be able to hide this from me forever?"

Spirit Albarn had caught wind of the fact that Maka—his _precious daughter_—would be moving into an apartment with Soul Eater—_a teenage boy._ Maka had impressed upon the senior Death Scythe that under absolutely no circumstances was he allowed to speak with her when Soul was present, but this news had horrified Spirit so thoroughly that he forgot his daughter's mandate and burst in upon them while Maka was helping Soul pack his things. He had thrown himself at Maka's feet and begged her to move in with him instead of _that filthy-minded, untrustworthy, virtue-stealing predator_, all the while shooting dirty glares and threats at the extremely confused Soul. Maka, furious, had knocked out the redhead with a swift Maka Chop, but she had been forced to explain herself to her partner. The demon weapon had taken the news in silence.

Soul now rolled closer to her. Maka forced herself to stand still. Her white-haired partner rose fluidly from his wheelchair. One hand fell on Maka's shoulder. The other cupped her chin and forced her green eyes to meet his blood red ones. The coolness of the metal on his palm contrasted with the warmth of his skin. Soul was frowning at her.

"You know everything about me, Maka—about my past, my family, my enemies—everything. But you couldn't tell me about your problems? We've spent years building up our partnership. How do you think I feel knowing that you couldn't trust me with this?"

Maka inhaled sharply, eyes widening. She hadn't considered it from this perspective. "It wasn't that I didn't _trust_ you!" she insisted. "I just didn't want to worry you!"

"I _worry_," Soul said, burning eyes emphasizing his words, "when you don't tell me things."

Maka bit her lip and would have looked down, but Soul forced her chin up. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Steeling herself to meet Soul's gaze, she opened her eyes once more and whispered, "I'm sorry. From now on, I'll tell you everything. I promise."

Soul searched her eyes for sincerity. Satisfied, he released her and lowered himself back into the wheelchair. He smiled up at her crookedly. "I know that neither of us has had a lot of luck with our families, and he _is_ a pretty weird guy, but I still think it's cool that your dad is _the _Spirit Albarn. I don't see why you won't take his last name—you could totally use that to your advantage."

Maka crossed her arms and glared at her partner. "Do _not_ call that imbecile my father," she snapped. "And like you're one to talk about using the family's last name, Soul _Eater._"

"It's a completely different situation!" Soul argued.

"No, it's _not! _End of discussion!" Maka yelled. She stomped down the hall, turned left, marched into one of the bedrooms, and slammed the door behind her.

Soul's smile widened into a grin. Angry as his meister at the moment, his soul link with her no longer felt clouded. Things were back to normal between them. "I call the room on the right?" he said to the empty living room. No one argued with him, so he pulled his bag onto his lap and set off to check out his new sleeping quarters.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>The Subterra is where Chrona lived while at the DWMA, where Marie always gets lost, where Sid looks like he is in his element, where Lord Death's collection of Eibon's relics is stored, and where the Kishin is buried. I could have called it the Dungeons, but then I would have had to crack a joke about it, and I didn't feel like it.

My brother chose the apartment number at random. By coincidence (or hitzusen?) it was the same number as the page I was currently typing in the document where the complete story is stored.

Many thanks to my reviewers! I'll burn a sacrificial cookie on the altar of the review gods and waft the smoke in your general direction.

~Shenzuul


	6. six

**.six.**

"So…how does this work, exactly?"

Soul and Maka stood in front of the mission board, a giant bulletin board lined with neat rows of hooks that took up almost an entire wall of the DWMA entrance hall. From the hooks hung wooden tablets that described the various missions available to DWMA students, staff, and outside allies. Soul had never seen a mission board before; his white hair and red eyes made it difficult for him to blend in, so they had always thought if safer for Maka to venture into the school when they needed to pick up their next mission or collect their pay.

"When you find the mission you want, you take the tablet off the board and bring it over to the Mission Director," Maka explained. "That's the woman over there, behind that desk. She checks to make sure you're qualified to take on the mission—some require you to be of a certain rank, sometimes you need special abilities like Soul Perception." Maka tapped her finger on one of the wooden rectangles, pointing out the line where it specified the prerequisites for the mission.

"If you do qualify, she writes down the mission in her log book. You sign off so that the school has an idea of who is doing the mission, and then when you come back, you state whether the mission was a success or a failure. If you don't come back within a reasonable amount of time, they send people to find out whether you died, which counts as an automatic failure. If you succeed, the Mission Director gives you the reward pay for the mission."

Soul examined the mission board. "Most of these require starred meister-weapon partners," he observed. "All of the ones that don't care about rank are a lot easier than the ones we used to do. How'd you get away with taking missions that needed ranked technicians and weapons back before we were enrolled?"

"I couldn't sign us up officially, but there's a sort of…unacknowledged but universally accepted process for taking on missions unofficially if you don't qualify. You write your name or symbol on the bottom of the mission posting to indicate that you intend to try to take it on, and if you succeed, you take the tablet to the Mission Director so you can get paid. Sometimes, you have to bring proof of completion, but usually the school just takes your word for it."

"Gotcha." Soul's eyes roved over the various mission postings. "So which one are we gonna take now?" Maka bit her lip thoughtfully, scanning the options for something that would catch her eye.

"I have something for you, if you are interested."

Maka and Soul turned around. "Oh, hi, Kid," Maka greeted.

"Hello, Maka, Soul." Kid nodded to each in turn. He handed a thin sheet of wood to Maka, who accepted curiously. "Father specifically requested that I take this mission, but it calls for two or three high-level weapon-meister pairs. Would you care to join Liz and me?"

Maka glanced at Soul, who shrugged. "Sure, Kid. That sounds great," the scythe technician said.

Kid smiled. "Excellent. I shall meet you at 8:00 tonight. Oh, and if you care to invite anyone else, that would be fine."

Soul took the tablet from Maka and glanced it over. "Bet Black*Star would like this one," he commented. "Let's ask him."

"All right," Maka consented. "I got Tsubaki's number in case I needed to ask about homework, so I can call her when we get home."

Kid nodded, and the three parted ways.

* * *

><p>"I don't see anybody."<p>

"We're a bit late. Do you think they left already?"

"Nah—it's only been a few minutes. Besides, he's the one who asked us to come. I doubt he'd just take off."

"Oh, wait—there's Liz. Liz!" Maka waved at the short blonde standing in front of the library and jogged over. "Liz!"

The weapon looked at Maka and burst into a fit of giggles. "I'm not Liz! I'm Patty," she told Maka through her bubbly laughter.

Maka slowed to a stop beside the blonde and stared at her, puzzled. "Oh, I'm sorry. Are you twins, then?" Patty looked exactly like Liz. She was even wearing the same outfit Liz had worn the day Maka met her. Only her facial expressions and tone of voice were different—Maka couldn't imagine Liz wearing a smile quite like the one on Patty's face or speaking with such uncontained merriment.

"Nope, not twins!" Patty denied, shaking her head furiously.

"Then, sisters?" Maka tried again.

"Nu-uh!" Patty's grin widened.

"But…you are related, right?" Maka pressed. "To Elizabeth Thompson?"

"Hmm…" Patty pressed tip of her index finger to her lips musingly. "In a waaaaay…"

Thoroughly befuddled, Maka stared at the other girl. Her brow furrowed, and she was just opening her mouth to ask another question when Death the Kid walked out from the alleyway between the library and the next building over. "Ah, Maka, Soul, you made it," he said crisply, striding over to them. "Magnificent. And you have met Patty, I see…" He stopped and considered the looks of helpless confusion on their faces. "Or perhaps not."

"A little clarification might help," Maka said weakly.

"Yes. Well. How to explain this?" Kid rubbed his chin. "Patty is my weapon."

"You wield two weapons?" Maka asked.

"I _can,_ but such is not exactly the case." Kid sighed, frowning in concentration. "Patty and Liz are…two halves of one person."

"Huh?" said Soul.

Kid shrugged helplessly. "Right now, she is Patty, but sometimes, she is Liz."

"I think I've heard of this," Maka said slowly. "Does she have Dissociative Identity Disorder?"

The young reaper shook his head. "No. Patty and Liz share memories, and although their personalities are different, they do not act independently. Any choice that Patty might make, Liz would back up, and the same is true visa versa. I don't really have any other way to explain it—she is simply what she is. It is a unique situation. It may make more sense to you when you see her fight in weapon form."

"Er…okay," Maka said. "Nice—nice to meet you, Patty."

Patty laughed. "We've already met, silly! But I'll shake your hand again anyway!" She grabbed Maka's outstretched hand and pumped it enthusiastically.

A little dazed, Maka turned to Kid. "By the way, we're sorry we were late."

The reaper glanced at his watch. "Since it is 8:08, I will forgive you," he decided. Soul and Maka exchanged a perplexed glance. "Besides, Black*Star has yet to show up. Did he agree to come?"

"Of course I did! A big guy like me is always happy to help you little runts out! Bwahahaha!" Death the Kid, Maka, and Soul looked up (while Patty giggled to herself). Black*Star stood on the roof of the library. Seeing their upturned eyes focused on him, the ninja grinned and jumped, landing with a loud thump in the center of their loose circle.

"About time you showed up, man," Soul said, smirking. Black*Star laughed and gave him a high five.

"Hello, Maka," greeted Tsubaki, walking toward her like a normal person. "I apologize for our lateness. Black*Star wanted to make a grand entrance." The quiet shadow weapon laughed lightly, a bit sheepish.

"It's not a problem," Maka assured her. Tsubaki smiled gratefully and exchanged salutations with the others.

Death the Kid checked his watch once more. "If we are all ready, we should get started." Five heads bobbed in agreement, and the group set off.

* * *

><p>"YAAAAHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"<p>

Death the Kid cocked his head slightly. That one had sounded a bit closer than the last. Black*Star was doing well. He had to admit, despite his reservations about the immature ninja, that Maka and Soul had chosen the third weapon-meister pair for this mission well. The pre-kishin target was a fairly powerful specimen, but the main difficulty in the mission was the creature's reluctance to engage in battle. For all its physical prowess, its greatest talent was slipping away from the meisters who chased it. Thus, the best way to hunt the monster was to lay a trap for it, and Black*Star was the perfect person for his part in the springing of said trap.

The plan was simple, but still had a ninety-four percent chance of success. Black*Star would chase the pre-kishin into the narrow alley below Kid's current perch. Maka, Soul in her hands, waited at the other end of the alley to block the pre-kishin's further progress. Black*Star would close the trap from behind. Kid covered the rooftops of the buildings that formed the sides of the alley, preventing the creature from escape from above. Unable to get past the three meisters, the creature would be forced to fight, and with three skilled opponents, quickly brought down. Kid marveled at the neatness of the plot.

"IT'S EASY TO UNDERSTAND WHY YOU'RE SO TERRIFIED OF A BIG GUY LIKE ME, YOU TINY MONSTER! I'M THE MIGHTY BLACK*STAR! HAHAHA!"

Death the Kid winced. That one had definitely been closer—just a block away, by his estimation. He readied the heavy, double-barreled handgun in his hands. "It's almost time, Patty," he murmured to his weapon.

"Aye, aye, sir!" Patty laughed.

Kid counted carefully in his head. Nine seconds later—he allowed himself a quiet sigh of disappointment—there was a flurry of scrabbling noises, and the pre-kishin darted down the alley, hounded by the echoes of Black*Star's maniacal laughter. Contrary to Black*Star's taunting claims, the corrupted being was anything _but_ tiny. It was at least eight feet tall at the peak of its hunched back, with long, thick arms that brushed the ground as it loped and a block-like head full of tombstone teeth. Kid watched the creature approach Maka with interest, curious to see how she would handle it.

The scythe meister held her ground against the charging pre-kishin until the last possible moment, lulling it into a false sense of security—letting it believe it could either slice her down or slide past with ease. And then, when it was almost upon her, she struck. Spinning Soul Eater around her hands with an expression of intense concentration on her face, she hit hard and fast, darting between the creature's tree-trunk arms to jab sharply up, catching it at the center of its diaphragm. Her aim was perfect; she had located and connected with its weak point. The monster nearly collapsed, stumbling back several steps to right itself. Forward Maka ran, slashing mercilessly, driving the creature back. Her focus was clearly only on calculating how best to bring her enemy down; she used her weapon with an enviable, mindless grace, as though he were merely an extension of her own limbs.

The pre-kishin, having had more than enough of the tiny but ferocious scythe meister, whirled around to run the way it had come, momentarily forgetting the blue-haired ninja that had driven him down this alley in the first place. The corrupted being soon paid for that mistake. Yelling something that Kid did not bother trying to make out, Black*Star leaped upon the monster. The twin blades of his beautifully symmetrical chain scythe dug deeply into the pre-kishin's hide. Its square, lumpy jaws parted, and a howl tore from its throat, sending streamers of spittle flying through the air. Black*Star clapped his hands over his ears, one eye squinting in pain.

Scowling, the shadow technician pulled his hands away from his head. Kid's sharp golden eyes spotted a thin trail of blood trickling down one earlobe. Black*Star threw one of the scythes of his kusarigama. The weapon flew over the pre-kishin's head and then wrapped the creature's neck in Tsubaki's chain. Black*Star yanked sharply, abruptly cutting off the pre-kishin's screech. Using the chain scythe to swing himself closer to the monster's head, Black*Star attempted to pierce the pre-kishin through the eye. The corrupt being swung its powerful head, throwing the blue-haired meister away and tugging Tsubaki out of his hands. Panicked, the creature jumped onto the nearest wall and began to climb, digging its long claws into the cracks between the dingy bricks.

Kid stood. It was his turn now. He raised the gun in his hands and fired six shots in rapid succession. Rather than regular bullets, spheres of purple-pink light flew from the ends of the gun's barrels. The first two hit the creature squarely in the shoulder, but, alerted to his presence, the creature scrabbled out of the way of the rest. It was surprisingly agile for such a massive monstrosity. Kid's eyes narrowed.

"Now," he ordered his weapon.

"Right-o!"

Crackling bolts of energy spiked out of the weapon in his hands, disturbing the air around Kid, making his suit flutter and his bangs fly up, away from his forehead. The grip of the gun widened and shifted. The hammer, trigger, and sights thickened and split in two. The barrels stretched and twisted. And then the weapon split down the middle, transforming into a pair identical single-barrel handguns. Eyes cool, Death the Kid expertly twirled the guns around his fingers and caught them again, this time upside down, with his pinkies resting against the triggers. "Patty…Liz…" he murmured.

"Ready!" his weapon's two halves chorused back at him, voices the same, yet different—Liz's more mature and serious, Patty's inflections cheerful and childish. He allowed himself a dangerous smile, calmly lifting the guns to take aim once more. This was it, that perfect moment in battle when both of his weapon's personalities materialized, revealing her dual nature, her nearly perfect symmetry. Her two selves split, but worked together in absolute harmony.

He fired, and the energy of his soul poured through his twin guns, erupting in crackling, pink-purple fire…

* * *

><p>Tsubaki wrapped her slim fingers around the glowing red kishin egg and bashfully turned her back to her companions to consume it—she always felt embarrassed when people watched her swallow the corrupt souls whole. Maka and Soul had passed on the soul, since they no longer needed to collect in order to create a Death Scythe. Normally, the soul would have gone to Kid, who had led the mission, and his weapon (currently Liz, for the more mature persona had come to dominance once again at the conclusion of the battle), but the reaper had discovered that so far Black*Star and Tsubaki had only <em>seven<em> souls. He had very nearly thrown himself on his knees and _begged_ the shadow weapon to take the kishin egg as her eighth, babbling incoherently about something to do with the bisection of numbers.

Maka brushed some rubble off her skirt, unaware of the small smile on her lips. It had been a _long_ time since she had done battle with a pre-kishin, and she had to admit that she had missed the heady feeling of victory. She did some mental calculations and froze, shocked. Three months between their defeat of the witch and Shibusen's declaration that they were a rogue meister and weapon, seven months on the run, one month healing from their confrontation with Dr. Stein, and two months in training at the school…it had been _over a year_ since her last mission. She had fought plenty in that time, but never against someone she actually considered an enemy. The thought was daunting.

Shaking herself, Maka looked up at her companions and inquired, "Should I call Shinigami-sama to report on our success, or do we want to just return to Shibusen?"

Black*Star crossed his arms and tilted his head. "Shinigami-sama?" he asked, confused. "Shibusen? What're those?"

Tsubaki spoke up. "Shinigami-sama is what Lord Death is called in Japan, Black*Star," the Asian girl explained. "And the DWMA is referred to as Shibusen. Are you from Japan, Maka?"

Maka glanced at Soul. "I'm not sure what my exact ancestry is," she replied carefully, "but I grew up in an orphanage there. My mother may have been American or European. Soul and I met in Japan and were affiliated with the Shibusen branch near Tokyo while we collected our one hundred souls."

"Oh. And are you Japanese, Soul?" Tsubaki wanted to know.

The Death Scythe shook his head. "Nah. I'm from England, originally." He declined further explanation, and Tsubaki dropped the subject.

"In answer to your question, Maka," said Kid pointedly, "there is no need to contact my father. I will be speaking to him in person soon, anyway. Actually, I suggest we all just go back home. It is late; the school can wait for our report until tomorrow."

Suppressing yawns, all agreed, and the three sets of partners separated, looking forward to the greetings of their warm, comfortable beds.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>When I realized I was going to have to write another fight scene, I buried my face in a cushion and screamed. There's nothing quite so refreshing as throwing a tantrum when you are _waaaaaaay_ too old to do so.

Dissociative Identity Disorder is, apparently, the new name for Multiple Personality Disorder. I researched it just enough to find that it wasn't quite what I wanted for Elizabeth Patricia Thompson. For those of you who missed her description in chapter five, she has Patty's body type—height, coloring, and so on—but her hairstyle and clothes are all Liz's.

~ Shenzuul


	7. seven

**.seven.**

_All was dark, dark and _red_. It pressed in on him, unrelenting. He curled in upon himself, arms wrapped around his stomach, folded legs crunched against his torso, head tucked down against his knees. And still that _red_ darkness pressed and pushed and crushed, crushed him. He needed to scream, needed to shout, needed to thrash, but he couldn't breathe, move, think. Dark _red_ panic welled up inside him, dark _red_ fear that was almost _black_, _black _as night, _black_ as blood. Pressure built in his throat and head and it felt like he was going to __**burst**__ but there was no room, no__** room**__, because that _red_ darkness was still pressing, pressing, pressing crushing pushing squeezing chokingshrinkingtrapping—_

Soul shot up in bed, gasping for air. His hand clutched at the amulet dangling around his neck, fingers clawing into his shirt, while his heart attempted to hammer its way out of his chest. Sweat-soaked locks of hair were plastered against his face, and tremors ran down his spine. He noticed that his sheets were wrapped tightly around him, and he tore them away violently, repulsed by their constriction.

It was unbearably, stiflingly hot in his bedroom. The walls pressed in around him. The darkness clung to him, heavy, sticky, suffocating. Soul's chest heaved as he struggled unsuccessfully to draw oxygen into his starving lungs. He rolled out of bed, thudding heavily onto the floor. He reached out blindly. His fingers bumped into and latched onto his wheelchair, and he dragged himself up into the seat. Fighting against his hyperventilating panic, Soul raced through the apartment, into the hallway outside, and out of the building.

The coolness of the night washed over him, brushing away the viscid tendrils of the nightmare's darkness that clung to him. Gulping mouthfuls of blessed _air_, Soul rolled over to a lonely streetlamp that shed its yellow-orange light over the deserted street. A breeze caressed his sweat-coated skin, and he shivered. Eyes clamped shut, Soul tossed his head back and tried to shake off the stubbornly lingering sensation of drowning in claustrophobia.

Her footsteps were soft, but Soul was so attuned to her that he immediately sensed her approach. His eyes slowly opened, and he glanced at her. She wore her trench coat and unbuckled combat boots over her pajamas, and the breeze toyed with the ends of her loose hair. "Hey," Soul said wearily.

"Hey." Maka pulled her coat more tightly around herself. "Nightmares again?"

Soul's eyes drifted shut once more. He nodded. "I guess that was _one_ good thing about being stuck as a weapon," he commented dully. "No dreams."

"It's the same one?" Maka asked quietly.

"Yeah," sighed Soul. "Same as ever." He raked his fingers through his hair. "Sorry for waking you."

"You didn't," Maka told him. "I was up studying."

Soul frowned. "You should have gone to bed. You need sleep."

His partner scowled. "I have to do better than that scumbag Ox on the next test. I'm going to tear down his reputation as the top student in the class." Soul chuckled, but another wave of claustrophobia swept through him. A shudder wracked his body, choking off the quiet laughter. He lifted a hand to massage his aching temples with the calloused pads of his fingertips.

Maka watched him struggle to control his breathing, her eyes filled with empathetic pain. Without thought, she moved closer to him. Hesitantly, she slid her hands over his shoulders, wrapping her arms around him from behind. The metal in his collarbone and shoulder pressed into her skin through the fabric of their clothing. She leaned forward to rest her cool cheek against his hot one. Soul exhaled slowly, tension draining out of him. He relaxed back into his chair, settling more comfortably into her embrace. "Thanks," he murmured.

Maka frowned. "Soul…" she began. Her fingers found the thong that held the amulet around Soul's neck and ran along the cord until they reached the pendant. "Soul, you don't have to keep having these nightmares. This isn't just affecting your sleep. I know it bothers you while you're awake, too." Her fingers began to curl around the amulet. "We could end this. Right now."

Soul's hand shot up to trap Maka's fist against his chest. "No, Maka." He pulled away from her and twisted in his wheelchair so that he could fix his scarlet eyes on her green ones. "It's not that bad. I can handle it." He gently disentangled the amulet from her fingers. "Look, it's late. We should both be getting back to bed."

"Soul—"

"Maka." Soul's tone was firm, his gaze unyielding. "It's fine. Don't worry about it so much."

"But—"

"Maka, please. I'm tired, I have a headache, and I just want to go back to sleep. Do we have to argue about this now?"

The meister glared. "You always avoid talking about it."

Soul grinned, but the humor did not reach his eyes. "That's 'cause we're both stubborn, and I don't want to waste my time with an argument that's never gonna get anywhere." He yawned widely. "Seriously though, let's go in."

Seeing that her partner was drooping with exhaustion, Maka relented. "All right."

* * *

><p>"Soul, wake <em>up,"<em> hissed Maka.

Soul muttered something unintelligible and turned his head away from his partner. A string of drool trailed from the corner of his mouth, hovering dangerously a mere centimeter above his textbook. In the row behind them, Black*Star snored loudly while Tsubaki tried to make herself look smaller, hoping that Sid wouldn't notice her meister slacking off in his Health class.

Maka narrowed her eyes at her weapon's unresponsiveness. "Soullllll…" she rumbled. The Death Scythe ignored her. In a flash, she jabbed her fingers into his side and pinched him viciously. With a muffled yelp, Soul shot up in his chair.

"What the _hell_, Maka?" he growled.

"Don't sleep during class!"

"I barely got any sleep last night!"

"That's not an excuse for not paying attention!"

"You're heartless."

"_You're_ lazy."

"Yeah, well at least I'm not a flat-chested bookworm."

"_Maka Chop!"_

"Ow," Soul whined. He grumpily folded his arms on his desk and rested his chin on his wrists. "I don't get why you care about this class. We already _know _this stuff. I mean, c'mon, basic nutrition and healthy lifestyles for weapons and meisters? And the next unit's on field treatment, and the one after that is for assessing and dealing with injuries during battle. This shit's second nature to us alrea—"

"Soul! Maka! I was never the kind of man who allowed talking during class!" Sid bellowed. Maka started; Soul simply fixed an apathetic gaze on the teacher. "Pop quiz: how many hours of sleep are recommended for the average teenager?"

"Nine and a half," Maka answered promptly.

"And how many did you two get last night?"

"About eight." Maka brushed a pigtail over her shoulder. "Between the two of us," she added in an undertone. Soul smirked.

"Hmph. Pay attention from now on!"

Soul and Maka exchanged snide comments in low voices for the rest of class, and the moment the bell rang, their argument resumed at full intensity. Kid, watching them, rather thought that they were enjoying themselves. He wondered if this was yet another aspect of friendship. He decided that if it was, it was probably something unique to Maka and Soul. The two were still squabbling when the next period started; they did not even notice when Stein walked into the classroom.

The professor watched them bicker for a few moments before concluding that he would have to shut them up himself in order to begin class. His movement was so rapid that it was hardly visible; his shoulder seemed to flicker, and the next instant, a dull thud heralded the appearance of a scalpel, quivering menacingly, buried in the desk behind Soul and Maka. Maka flinched while Soul, who had opened his mouth to deliver a biting remark, jerked back.

"Soul Eater," said Dr. Stein pleasantly. "Please come here."

Soul's eyes widened in panic. Approaching the mad doctor was the absolutely _last_ thing he wanted to do. Stein was notorious for his love of dissecting anything that a blade could cut into, and most of his classes involved chopping various creatures into tiny bits and labeling the pieces. Soul did not want to end up as the next lab rat. However, Stein's glittering eyes told the weapon that, whatever the doctor was planning for him now, much worse things would be in store for the Death Scythe if he didn't obey, so, swallowing his dread, he slid into his wheelchair and rolled forward.

"Thank you," said Stein, wearing the fakest smile Soul had ever seen. "Now turn to face the class." Turning his back on the doctor felt like suicide, but the white-haired weapon slowly did as he was told. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and he could sense _exactly _where the doctor was standing by a distinct sensation of coldness radiating from a place just behind him.

"Today, we are going to try a little experiment," Stein announced. Soul went dead white and made a small choking noise. Stein's lips twitched, barely suppressing a smirk. "Using your skills of observation, tell me everything you can about Soul Eater."

The students of Class Crescent Moon blinked and looked at one another uncertainly. After a long silence, someone spoke. "Well, sir, he's got white hair and red eyes, but he isn't albino. His skin's tan, so he's got melanin, the pigment that albinos lack."

"And what does that mean?" Stein prodded.

"Umm…well…"

Another student piped up. "Since he's not albino, his coloring probably is from his weapon gene. Some weapon families pass along unusual physical traits. That probably explains his jagged teeth, too."

"Good. What else?"

A girl with curly red hair called out, "He's right handed, and his pen is broken. There are ink stains all over his right index and middle fingers." Soul grinned, and several people chuckled. Stein nodded and waited patiently.

"He has a twisted personality, and he tends to be cold and calculating," sneered Ox. Maka stiffened and shot a glare at her rival.

"How did you come to that conclusion?" asked Stein.

"I used Soul Perception," Ox replied smugly.

Stein nodded. "Excellent. Can anyone tell me more about his soul?" Soul shifted uncomfortably as the meisters in the class who had the Soul Perception ability focused on him with new interest.

An African American boy, his hair styled with a combination of dreadlocks and cornrows, observed hesitantly, "It's a really light blue-silver color, and you can kinda see the jagged teeth…and the top spikes a bit, like his hair."

Death the Kid quietly added, "He is loyal and protective. And currently, his predominant emotion is unease. It almost borders on claustrophobia."

Stein turned to Maka. "Do you have anything to add, Maka?"

The meister shrugged. "His soul sounds like a dark piano song and smells like leather and cologne." Ox and Kid sat up straighter and stared at Maka, the prior with something like jealousy in his eyes, the latter with intent curiosity.

The light reflecting off Stein's glasses hid both his eyes and expression. "Very good. Soul Eater, you may return to your desk." As Soul made his way back to Maka's side, the doctor told the class, "There are a number of things that one can ascertain about an opponent using Soul Perception—emotions and personality being some of the most important. It cannot tell you everything though. What cannot be determined using Soul Perception? Maka?"

Maka lowered her hand. "Gender and exact thoughts."

"Correct. Souls are not maps of the physical body. While they may reflect some key traits—like sharp teeth and disheveled hair—they do not tell the observer about gender, physical size, coloring, and the like. Nor do souls tell you what your enemy is thinking. You may be able to sense a soul's fear, but you cannot be certain what it is afraid of or what it plans to do because of that fear.

"The body, mind, and soul are distinct from one another. However, different though they are, they are strongly interconnected. You can gain insights about one aspect of a person by looking into another, and if you remove one of the three from the equation, the whole person ceases to function properly. Keep this in mind when you fight—if you fail to defend yourself from all three angles, you will be defeated.

"Now, back to souls. When we discussed what can and cannot be determined about an opponent using Soul Perception, there was one important topic not discussed. What was it?"

Ox quickly jumped on the question. "Power." He haughtily glanced at Maka, pleased that he had spoken before she had. The blonde meister ignored him, eyes fastened on Dr. Stein.

"Do you care to guess why we saved this subject for last?"

Ox hesitated, uncertain. Maka softly spoke up. "It is possible to gauge a person's power with Soul Perception, but the results are not always reliable."

"Exactly," Stein affirmed, looking at her sharply. "Often, one can estimate the power of a soul simply by its size. However, this method is limited, because after a certain point, most powerful beings learn to concentrate their power within a sphere of a reasonable size, usually only a bit larger than their bodies. Once you start facing these more advanced adversaries, you will need more refined ways of gauging power.

"Some people learn to use their Soul Perception to see the concentration of a soul's power as relative brightness. The most skilled meisters, though, expand their ability to utilize _all_ of their senses—hearing, smell, touch, taste, instinct. The combination allows for a more exact reading of a soul. Maka, it seems, is already able to do this to some extent, at least with her partner. Are you able to read other people similarly?"

"Yes, but not as well, of course."

"Of course," Stein echoed. "Close proximity and frequent contact will sharpen your observations on a soul using the Perception ability, which is why you will always know your partner better than any other." The doctor twisted the screw in his head. "Once again, I stress the importance of taking advantage of every aspect of Soul Perception that you can. Few master using Perception in multiple senses at your age, but now is the time to start making the attempt. Form good habits early.

"Unfortunately, even if you completely master Soul Perception, you will not always be able to rely on it to give you an accurate measure of an opponent's power. Witches have developed a magical technique specifically targeted at fooling Soul Perception. The ability is called Soul Protect. The spell creates a 'barrier' of sorts around the soul, which cancels out the witch's wavelength, making her soul seem no more than that of an ordinary human. The downside of this is a severe limitation on the power that the witch is able to use. Most can cast no more than the simplest of spells without first removing Soul Protect.

"As with all other such techniques, the quality of a Soul Protect depends on the skill and power of the one who uses it. Some witches cannot use the ability at all. Some can only partially disguise their power, while some can hide themselves so effectively that they do not even leave the traces that an ordinary human's soul would. The witch's talent also determines exactly how much of her power remains available to her while she uses Soul Protect without destroying the barrier around her soul."

Stein spent the rest of class calling various weapons to the front of the room and making the other students practice the art of observation, both with Soul Perception and more mundane methods. It was easily one of the most interesting lessons the doctor had ever taught, and to their surprise, the students found themselves using the knowledge they had picked up in his innumerable dissection labs. When the bell rang, signaling the end of the period, they broke out in excited discussion of what they had learned.

"Maka, Death the Kid, Black*Star, you and your weapons need to stay behind for a moment." The six teens glanced at one another and shrugged. They waited for their classmates to finish filing out of the room and for the chattering voices in the hall to fade away before approaching Stein's desk.

The doctor came straight to the point. "Your class schedule has been changed. From now on, the six of you will be participating in the special training regimen that a few of your classmates are already taking." Stein focused on Maka. "You and Soul are far too advanced for most of your classes. Due to your unusual background, there are a few things that you are a bit behind on, but for the most part, your current courses are a waste of your time. You will receive some additional homework to bring you up to speed on those things your education has thus far lacked, but otherwise, I believe you are fully prepared to move on."

Stein's attention turned to Kid. "_All_ of your courses are beneath you. As a reaper, your power far exceeds that of human meisters. The only thing that you lack is experience. The reason we have held you back thus far is simply that previously, we have not been able to fit you into the special program. That has changed now that Maka and Soul have enrolled."

Finally, Stein looked at Black*Star. "_You_ are by no means ready to advance. Academically, you trail behind everyone else in the class. However, in terms of physical strength and skill, you by far exceed nearly all of your classmates. For this reason, we have decided to allow your admission into the special program. Students must join in teams of three meisters and their weapons. Maka and Kid need a third, and so we will make an exception for you, despite your deficiencies."

Sharp eyes behind large glasses focused on Tsubaki. "I'm afraid this means extra responsibility for you. As Black*Star's weapon and the more academically able of the pair, it will be your duty to keep your partner at a sufficient scholastic level."

Stein sighed and twisted the screw in his head. "The special training program is for the DWMA's elite students, called Spartoi. As I said before, Spartoi is divided up into teams of three meisters and their weapons. These teams are taught a high-level skill called Chain Resonance. This skill is crucial to all subsequent training. Chain Resonance is very similar to the Soul Resonance you already do with your weapon partners, except that it connects all the members in the team through the meisters.

"Starting tomorrow, you will be exempt from your morning classes and spend your extra time in intensive training with me. Your afternoon schedules will remain unchanged. You are dismissed." Giving his students no time to ask questions, complain, or argue, Stein turned and strode out of the classroom.

* * *

><p>Soul watched his meister pace relentlessly across the empty classroom. Back and forth, back and forth. He noted with detached interest that the pitch of her footsteps changed depending on where she walked in relation to him. Higher when she was farther away and approaching him, lower when she passed by and walked away, only to change again as she switched direction. He imagined that he could feel the echoes bouncing off the bare classroom walls vibrating in the metal embedded in his skin. Patiently, he waited for Maka to speak.<p>

At last, the scythe technician forced her restless feet to stop and heaved herself up to sit on the teacher's desk, feet dangling over the edge. She met Soul's crimson gaze, worry etched all over her face. "I don't know what to do," she confessed. "I don't know whether or not to go through with this. It could ruin everything."

"What? Maka isn't sure whether she's happy about being advanced in her training?" Soul joked lightly.

"This is serious, Soul!" Maka snapped. "If we have to do Chain Resonance, they might figure _that_ out, and then we'll have to explain everything. I'm not even sure if we _can _do Chain Resonance. We could accidentally mess something up, and then _they_ would figure out where we are. I'm pretty sure the only reason we've been safe so far is the fact that all of the powerful wavelengths from the other weapons and meisters here have shielded us from detection."

"Way to talk in extremely vague code, Maka," Soul muttered. "But yeah, I know. We're gonna have to be careful." He rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "Do you know much about Chain Resonance?" he asked his meister.

Maka shrugged. "A little. I've read about it before."

"There's something Stein said—about Chain Resonance connecting the weapon-meister partners through the meister?"

"Yeah. Basically, after the individual partner sets have resonated, the meisters connect with one another to form the chain."

"So the weapons don't necessarily connect directly to the 'chain,'" Soul mused.

"I guess not," Maka allowed, biting her lip. "But I don't know much about the exact nature of the connection. I can't guess how much the others would be able to sense in such a resonance."

Both fell silent, thinking. Finally, Soul said, "We don't really have much choice but to try it. Stein didn't make it sound like it was optional, and he'll know right away if we just don't put any effort into actually succeeding. The only other thing we can do is run again, and that's just as risky—maybe even more so." He paused. "I _think_ we'll be okay. Even if Black*Star or Kid or the girls feel something weird about my soul, I don't think that just doing the resonance will cause any harm. When you and I resonate there are no problems, and my connection will still be _through_ you."

Maka frowned, but she understood his logic. "Okay," she agreed reluctantly. "We'll do it."

* * *

><p>"No resting," Stein ordered. "Again!"<p>

Maka resisted the urge to glare at her professor and snapped her eyes shut, scowling in ferocious concentration. Her face gleamed with sweat, and she breathed heavily. Black*Star and Death the Kid did not fare much better. The three stood in a triangle, facing one another, each holding their transformed weapons in their hands. The meisters focused inward, searching their souls for their source of power. Grasping that power, they drew it out, letting it fill their bodies and then grow beyond. Stein, watching the trio work with his Soul Perception, saw their power expand outward and manifest, encompassing their bodies in large globes that mirrored their souls in shape.

Once they had hold of their power, the meisters prepared to resonate with one another. _Kid,_ Maka called with her soul.

_Maka,_ came the cool reply.

Slowly, carefully, Maka reached toward the young shinigami with her soul, adjusting her wavelength until it matched his. Threads of power stretched across the gap between the souls and melded them together. Maka forced herself not to cringe away from the contact. Forcing her lungs to inhale deeply, she called, _Okay, we're connected. So far, so good. _ Maka exhaled evenly. _Black*Star. _She felt Kid follow her lead as she directed her wavelength toward the shadow technician. Her soul sprouted a vine of power that crept towards Black*Star's soul. Black*Star's power poured out to meet her. The two souls drew closer and closer, nearly touching, and—

_CRACK!_

Abruptly, the power rebounded. The connections snapped, and the three meisters lost control of their wavelengths. All three stumbled and nearly fell as their souls explosively rejected one another. Dirt and fallen leaves flew through the air as the uncontrolled power stirred up a brief tempest. Maka winced as a pebble cut across her cheek. She recovered her balance and straightened, green eyes flashing furiously.

"Another failure," Stein stated. His eyes narrowed behind his glasses. For two weeks he had observed the newest Spartoi team struggling to master Chain Resonance, and still they had nothing to show for their efforts. _The reason they keep failing is obvious, _he mused._ Black*Star's wavelength is trying to take over. It won't accept Maka's lead and mesh with the others. _Stein's gaze fell on the thin blonde, quietly simmering with pent-up rage. _But he may not be the only problem they have._

"Get it _right,_ Black*Star!" Maka spat, shooting a death glare at the blue-haired ninja.

"I am, Maka!" Black*Star retorted. Exhaustion and frustration sharpened both of their voices.

"You never think of anyone but yourself, Black*Star!" Maka snapped. "Try working with everyone else this time!"

"Why bother?" sneered Black*Star. "Who would want to work with an idiot like you, anyway?" Maka's fists clenched, her spine going rigid with fury. Ignoring the danger signs, Black*Star pushed harder. "Can't you see _you're _the weak link here?"

"Say that again, you punk," Maka growled, taking a step toward Black*Star. The shadow technician smirked at her, silently daring her to come closer.

Kid threw an arm in front of Maka, blocking her further advancement. "Guys, stop it!" he warned.

"Let's go ahead and take a break," Stein sighed, twisting the screw in his head. He turned and walked away. "Maybe talking things through will help you clear your minds a little bit."

"There's no point in talking to a _fool,_" Maka avowed darkly. She and Black*Star glowered at one another as the weapons glowed briefly and changed back into their human forms. Patty sucked on her lower lip, looking from Black*Star to Maka with giant eyes while Tsubaki clasped her hands tightly together, anxiety clouding her sweet face. Soul tightly gripped Maka's upper arm, as much to offer silent warning and comfort as to balance himself while she pulled a collapsible crutch from the folds of her trench coat.

Maka continued to seethe as Soul limped over to his wheelchair, parked at the edge of the forest clearing where they "practiced" Chain Resonance every morning. Maka had worried about the consequences of attempting the technique, but she had never dreamed that they wouldn't manage to accomplish it at all! The idea was utterly ridiculous! She was _Maka,_ the youngest meister to ever create a Death Scythe. There was _nothing_ she couldn't master when she set her mind to it!

_Ox_ could do Chain Resonance. He and a few of Maka's other classmates—Killik Rung and Kim Diehl—had been the first Spartoi team. For a moment, Maka wavered, her anger split between the arrogant Ox Ford and the narcissistic Black*Star, before she directed all of her wrath toward the latter. Black*Star was the one holding her back. That _jerk's_ wavelength was impossible to match.

"Everything's always about you, Black*Star," Maka muttered through gritted teeth. "You think you're some god but you're really just a second-rate brat who can't do anything right."

Black*Star stiffened. His head whipped around, and he fastened dangerously glinting jade eyes on Maka. "Oh yeah? Look at you! You always boss people around, and push them to their limits until they _break!_ It's a miracle anyone can stand you!"

Maka's mind went blank as white hot ire flared within her. She whirled. She did not know when her feet carried her across the clearing, or when her fist drew back. She barely registered the moment when Black*Star's hand shot up to catch her punch. Then Black*Star shifted his weight and yanked Maka forward, throwing her over his hip. She landed hard on her back, the wind knocked out of her. The pain returned her to her senses, but did not slow her down. In a motion faster than the eye could see, she leaped to her feet, spun around, and threw another punch at Black*Star.

This time, the ninja made no attempt to stop her. Maka's knuckles crashed into his stubborn jaw. Bone creaked threateningly. Two pairs of gleaming green eyes seared into one another. Slowly, Maka pulled her fist away from Black*Star's face. Abruptly, she turned and stalked away.

At the edge of the clearing, she paused. She felt an eruption bubbling up her throat. Her whole body trembled. Fingernails carving bloody furrows into her palms, she let the scream tear from her vocal chords.

"_YOU BASTAAAAARD!"_

And she ran.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Beh. If you have questions (Wtf? Leather and cologne?) I'll answer them. By the way, I seriously hated this episode of the anime, so if anyone wants to commiserate, feel free to spiel in your review or whatever.

~ Shenzuul


	8. eight

**.eight.**

The five stood paralyzed, staring after Maka long after her figure had disappeared from sight. It was Tsubaki who shattered the stillness. The gentle shadow weapon raised her hand high and smacked her meister upside the head, holding back none of her strength. Black*Star stumbled forward a step before righting himself, rubbing the back of his skull.

"I deserved that," the ninja muttered, looking down at his feet in uncharacteristic remorse.

Soul closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. _He has no idea how close to the mark he hit, _he reminded himself. _He said it thoughtlessly, because he was tired and frustrated and angry, just like the rest of us. He wasn't trying to be cruel._ He set aside the temptation to unleash his temper on Black*Star; he had more important things to do. The scythe moved his hands to his wheels. "I'll be back," he announced quietly. Without waiting for a response or looking at the others, he set out after his meister.

Maka was never difficult to find, if you knew her well enough. When she was upset, she needed to move, forging blindly ahead until her legs gave out on her. If there was no straight path available to her, though, she always turned left. Soul suspected that it was because, even in her subconscious mind, she constantly analyzed her situation. She wanted to be alone, and since most people turned right when given an arbitrary choice, she unconsciously chose left, moving away from any who might follow in search of her.

Such a strategy would not help her shake her partner.

He waited until he was beyond the vision or hearing of the others before abandoning his sedate pace. It wouldn't be cool to let anyone see him racing after his meister, but once he had escaped the others' presence, he let his calm, collected façade drop and sped down the trail as fast as he could. Soul used every tactic he knew to coax more speed out of his wheelchair. Maka was built for running. He'd need everything he had to catch up.

Even as he barreled through the forest, intent on his goal, Soul carefully watched for the telltale signs of Maka's passing. There weren't many, but Soul read enough from his surroundings to know when she had begun to slow down. He dropped his pace as well, so that, when he came around a curve in the path to find Maka standing before him, gazing out over the drop off marking the edge of the forest that surrounded the school, he could approach her at a casual amble.

Maka did not turn to face him, though he knew that she sensed his presence. He also knew that she could feel his worry for her, but he slipped on his emotionless mask anyway. Without a word, he wheeled up to her side and looked out over the city with her, not so much as glancing her way.

The silence stretched out.

"I don't get how you can stand him."

Soul surveyed his meister out of the corner of his eye. Her eyes were dull and distant, not really seeing the splendor of Death City spread out far beneath her. "Don't you ever get tired of it? Letting his stupid whims control everything?" Maka asked tonelessly.

Soul pondered how best to respond. "Black*Star…" he began slowly. He paused, struggling for a moment over the uncool words that were about to come out of his mouth. "Black*Star's got his heart in the right place." Maka snorted. Ignoring her, Soul continued, "It's hard to tell, but the kid really does try his best. Calling himself a god and all that…it's his way of convincing himself that he _can_ do everything."

"But no one can do everything!" Maka snapped. "You can't just overcome obstacles by pretending that they're not there, or calling them _smaller_ than you!" Her tone was scathing. "There are limits to what a person can do, no matter what you tell yourself! And when you try to go beyond your limits, you just get people _hurt_ and—!"

"Maka," interrupted Soul quietly. "Who are we talking about right now?"

She froze.

"Maka?" Soul pressed.

Slowly, she turned to face him. Her eyes came to a rest on his face, but he could tell that she wasn't really seeing him. She was far away, lost in her reeling thoughts, trying to come to grips with something. He waited.

"It…it's not Black*Star's fault that we can't do Chain Resonance," Maka whispered. "It's mine." Her hand lifted shakily to cover her eyes. A bitter smile slowly crept across her face. "I know perfectly well…that I'm the weak link. I didn't need Black*Star to tell me that. Everything he said…He's right about me." Her hand fell, and she focused on Soul's face. "It's all…my fault."

She reached out and gently brushed white bangs away from Soul's eyes. The scythe held perfectly still as two fingers delicately traced the shard of metal that cut through his eyebrow. "My fault," Maka repeated softly, eyes dark with sorrow and regret.

Soul's heart constricted. He had known for a long time that Maka blamed herself for what had happened to him. She kept the guilt tucked away, but he was too close to her soul for her to effectively hide it from him. No matter how deeply she buried her pain, it was inevitable that he would catch glimpses of it when they resonated.

She hated herself for her weakness. Had she been stronger, she would have been able to defeat the witch cleanly, would have been able to prevent Soul from losing his leg. She blamed herself for her ambition, her desire to prove herself, her need to be better than anyone else. They hadn't been ready to take on a witch. She should have known. She should have seen it, but she was too blinded by her selfish wants and her arrogance. She loathed herself for her failure. She was the only person Soul had chosen to rely on, the only one he had chosen to trust, and she had failed to protect him.

She had promised to make him the strongest Death Scythe in the world. Instead, she had crippled him.

Soul ached with the guilt and regret his meister bore. He wished he could make her understand that it wasn't her fault alone. If there was blame to carry, he shared it equally. They were partners. Maka had not—and would never—force him into anything. She might push him to be stronger, but she never let her desires overwhelm his own. If they had been too weak and inexperienced to take on a witch, both had failed to realize it, both had been too cocky.

He could never make her see that it was not the meister's duty to protect the weapon, but the weapon's duty to protect the meister.

And he could never tell her that it was not her who had crippled him.

Maka pulled her hand away from Soul's face. Averting her eyes, she hugged herself tightly. "It seems," she murmured, "that I can't get anything right. I'm the weak link who holds people back, but when I try to get stronger, I end up hurting people." She let out a breath of pained laughter. "I think that I'm actually a little bit jealous of Black*Star. He's a lot stronger than I am. It just comes naturally to him."

Soul wanted to tell her that she was wrong, that she was the strongest person he had ever met, but he knew she wouldn't believe him. So instead, he asked, "Is that why you can't resonate with Black*Star?"

Maka shook her head. "No. If it were just jealousy, I could do it, because jealousy is based on admiration. No," she said quietly. "It's because I don't trust him." Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the bluff, feet dangling over the drop off. She scooted a bit closer to Soul and leaned sideways against his wheelchair. "Every time I try to connect to Black*Star's soul, I just…I don't know. I guess I'm overwhelmed by his personality. How do you trust someone like that?" she asked bitterly. "He's so focused on himself, on making himself look better than everyone else. How can you rely on someone like that in battle? How can you trust such a person with your soul?"

The meister brought her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them moodily. "I barely know Black*Star. Tsubaki says that she doesn't even understand him sometimes, and she's been his partner for years now. I've only been acquainted with him for a couple of months. That's not even enough time to really become friends, let alone give someone your confidence. If you think about it, it should be impossible for Black*Star and me to resonate."

"Then don't think about it," Soul suggested. Maka looked up at him, startled. Soul flashed her a crooked smile. "It's called blind faith," the Death Scythe told her, lightly rapping his knuckles on her head. "Don't resonate with Black*Star because you trust him with your life; resonate with him because you're giving him a chance to prove himself." The weapon chuckled as his meister stared at him. "C'mon, Maka, don't you remember? _We_ hardly knew each other the first time we resonated. In fact, I think it's safe to say that we were perfect strangers. The reason we trust each other now is because we have resonated so often that we know each other's souls inside and out."

"B-but…" Maka protested.

"You've already done it," Soul pointed out. "You haven't known Kid any longer than Black*Star, and you're able to resonate with him."

"That's…different."

"How?" Soul questioned.

"He's a shinigami," Maka muttered, turning a bit red. "It's a bit stupid, but…I mean, they're a lot more powerful than humans, and protecting souls isn't just part of what they do, but the very essence of what they are, so…"

"So it's easier to trust Kid than a normal human?"

"Well, no," Maka confessed. "But since I know that I _should_ trust him, I can force my way past my reservations."

"I see."

The two drifted into silence, gazing out over Death City together as they sank into their thoughts. Already it was late in the morning. The laughing sun had long since crested the school and forest, and the heavy golden light fell glittering on the rooftops far below. Despite the darkness that crouched in the dingy alleys and shady doorsteps of the metropolis and emerged under the cover of night, Death City could actually be quite beautiful at times like this, when the sunlight highlighted its unique architecture and warmed the backs of its citizens, ordinary people who braved the unusual dangers of the city as they brought the City of Death to life.

"I remember now," Maka murmured. Soul glanced at her questioningly, and she smiled up at him. "The first time we resonated," she explained. "I remember what it felt like." Suddenly filled with energy, she scrambled to her feet. "I think I'm ready to go back now." Turning away from the drop off, she strode back up the trail.

Mouth curving into a grin, Soul wheeled around and followed his meister. The others were waiting for them.

* * *

><p>Maka's pace dropped with her confidence as she and Soul neared the clearing. Her fingers curled and uncurled with nervousness, and her feet scuffed reluctantly through the dirt. Rolling his eyes at his lagging meister, Soul grabbed the back of her jacket and yanked her towards him. She yelped as she lost her balance and tumbled into his lap. Reaching around her awkwardly sprawled limbs, Soul rested his hands on his wheels once more and continued onward. "C'mon, Maka, you were all for this a minute ago," Soul cajoled.<p>

"That was before I remembered that I'm going to have to apologize to Black*Star," Maka groaned. "Shinigami, this is going to be so embarrassing." Soul rolled his eyes again.

Soul refused to let Maka up, paying no heed to her vocal complaints. He kept her trapped on his lap all the way back to the clearing, where he dumped her unceremoniously in front of the rest of the team. She jumped to her feet and brushed off her skirt, scowling at her partner, who gave her a cheeky grin in return. But the scythe's expression grew serious as he turned his attention to the rest of the team. They all shifted uncomfortably under his hard stare. They had never seen the Death Scythe look so grim.

"We are going to talk," Soul told them firmly. "Stein said it might help us."

The teammates glanced at one another. "That sounds reasonable to me," Kid said finally. "But what are we going to talk about?"

"I don't know," Soul admitted. "But we need to do something that will help work as more of a team."

Tsubaki spoke up timidly. "What about…Why don't we tell each other about how we became partners?"

Patty's eyes widened. For a moment, her countenance wavered, before settling into a contemplative expression. "Yeah, that sounds good," the weapon said with Liz's voice. Death the Kid nodded in agreement. Black*Star crossed his arms, but did not argue.

Soul waited for Maka to make a decision. The scythe technician hesitated, but at last she nodded. She sat down on the ground and crossed her legs. Soul slid out of his wheelchair, settling down beside her. One by one, the others followed their lead, until the whole team sat in a circle.

"Why don't we go first, Black*Star?" Tsubaki urged, nudging her meister.

Black*Star cracked a humorless grin. "Yeah. Gods should always go first," he responded half-heartedly. He flicked a small pebble away from his knee, brow creased in thought. "I guess there are a few things you need to know first to understand it." He looked at Tsubaki out of the corner of his eye. The shadow weapon nodded encouragingly. Taking a breath, Black*Star began to speak.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Damn it, damn it, damn it, damn it, _damn it._ I did not mean to stop there. I did not mean to devote a whole chapter to Black*Star's story. Why is this fic getting so long? So now you have to read through two chapters of backstory before we get to anything about Soul and Maka. DX I'm sorry…

~ Shenzuul


	9. foray into the past

**.foray into the past : black*star.**

"_You are weak."_

"_You are insignificant."_

"_You are nothing."_

_Nothing…_

* * *

><p>Star Clan. One of the eight ancient warrior tribes from which, according to legend, the God of Death had drawn his eight most trusted companions in ancient times, before the days of the Kishin. Star Clan, the Brotherhood of Assassins, the Tribe of the Ninjas. The Keeper of the Secret Way of the Shadow Warrior. The powerful family through which flowed some of the oldest, fiercest blood of the human race. Star Clan, which valued cunning, battle prowess, and honor above all else.<p>

That is, before the entire clan fell to the corruption of evil.

The tale of Star Clan is one shared by many; it is the tragic story of one of mankind's greatest foundational flaws. It is, perhaps, unsurprising then that one of the eight ancient warrior tribes should have succumbed to this natural weakness; unsurprising, but lamentable.

Respect for power grows into admiration. Admiration of power leads to the desire for it. Desire gives way to an insatiable craving, and craving deepens into searing obsession. And the obsession becomes an addiction, an unquenchable thirst, a deep-rooted longing. Little by little, all other concerns melt away, in the face of its heat. Ideals, values, morals wilt and die, one by one. All other thought vanishes, and the focus of one's very being drives into that one goal: power. There is power, and nothing else.

There came a time when, in their quest for power, the warriors of Star Clan could no longer be satisfied simply by absorbing corrupted souls. And so they turned to a much readier source of nourishment for their craving for power: the souls of pure human beings. They began to prey upon the innocent, destroying entire families, entire villages, in the rampages of their hunger. Their old, pure blood, though now tainted by evil, protected them from turning into the monstrous pre-kishin; their path into darkness was that of the demon.

Seventeen years ago, a child named Black*Star was born into this clan.

* * *

><p>"<em>It's tiny."<em>

"_He'll grow. He's perfectly healthy."_

"_It's being awfully quiet. I thought the healthy ones were supposed to scream bloody murder."_

"_He's asleep, White*Star."_

_Silence._

"_He is our son, White*Star, _your_ son. One day he will become a great leader of Star Clan, just as you have."_

_Grunt._

_Pause. "What will we call him?"_

_Silence. Then: "Black*Star."_

* * *

><p>When Black*Star was four years old, his mother died.<p>

* * *

><p><em>White*Star gazed emotionlessly down into the open casket. The face of his wife was as pale and still as marble, its expression cold and stern. The indigo evening gown she wore did not quite cover the slash marks that reached all the way up to her neck. The knives that had killed her lay in the casket beside her, still stained with her blood. <em>Ordinary_ knives. White*Star's mouth hardened._

_Pathetic._

_The leader of Star Clan turned his back on the coffin. His cold gaze fell on the small child standing a few feet away, looking at the casket with puzzlement. Blue hair, like _hers_, he noted. Scrawny. His scowl deepened. The child looked up and caught sight of the dark look on White*Star's face. It stiffened, but did not flinch away. Hmm. Not a coward. The scowl relaxed into a heavy frown. Perhaps the child wouldn't be as great a disappointment as its mother after all. Turning his glowing demon eyes away, he strode past the child, leaving it—_him_—standing alone by the cold coffin._

* * *

><p>Alone, Black*Star passed through his early childhood. He ate and slept in the house of his father, but he saw very little of White*Star. The leader of Star Clan left the boy to fend for himself while he led assassinations and ruled his people with an iron fist. Alone, Black*Star defended himself against the other children, who targeted him for his small stature. He taught himself to fight, to be stronger than the others.<p>

* * *

><p><em>The two six-year-olds tumbled around in the dust at the center of the small village. The larger of the two grabbed a fistful of the other's blue hair and walloped him in the eye, but the smaller child kicked and punched back furiously, landing good hits on the other's stomach. The bigger child groaned and dropped her opponent, who leaped upon her and pummeled her until she fell to the ground. Panting, the blue-haired child stood, grinning victoriously despite a split lip and rapidly blackening eye. The other child scrambled to her feet and scampered away, resolving never to try to bully the blue-haired boy again.<em>

_Black*Star smirked at his opponent's back. A flash of white drew his attention, and he froze, hackles rising. White*Star leaned against the doorjamb of a nearby house, arms crossed, observing him. Meeting Black*Star's gaze, the leader of Star Clan gave the tiniest of nods and disappeared into the building. The child's heart pounded. His father usually ignored him, but lately, the child had caught the intimidating man watching him at odd moments, a gleam in the demonic eyes._

_Black*Star didn't like it._

* * *

><p>There was something <em>different<em> about Black*Star, something that separated him from the other children. It wasn't the fact that he was small for his age, or that his father was the leader of the Clan, or that he had basically raised himself, largely neglected by his sole parent. The boy was acutely aware of this difference, but he could not name it. Sometimes, he wondered if it was the voice in his head, the voice that occasionally whispered to him about what he should—or should _not_—do.

At the age of seven, the _difference_ between Black*Star and the other children of Star Clan cost him his life.

* * *

><p><em>A circle of jeering, laughing children pressed in around Black*Star and the twelve-year-old boy he had pinned to the ground. It had taken Black*Star less than a minute to teach the older boy that picking a fight with him was a mistake, despite the elder's advantages in height, weight, and experience. Hand around the boy's throat, Black*Star grinned dangerously. The blonde reluctantly raised his hands in surrender.<em>

"_Kill him."_

_Immediately, the other children fell silent. Black*Star felt a shadow loom over him. His muscles tensed as he slowly looked up. White*Star stood over him, looking down with neutral eyes. "Kill him," the leader of Star Clan repeated coldly. "Losers do not deserve to live."_

_Black*Star looked back at his opponent. The older boy was white and trembling, eyes wide with terror. Black*Star could feel his pulse racing beneath his palm. The blue-haired child's fingers tightened slightly. The blonde's eyes squeezed shut. Black*Star inhaled deeply, and he released the other's throat._

_White*Star's eyes narrowed._

_There was a flash—sunlight on metal—and a gurgled scream, abruptly cut off. A splatter of red—_

_Paper-white face smeared with crimson blood, Black*Star leaped off the other boy's chest, eyes riveted on the short blade protruding from the child's throat. A glow spread over the boy's chest, and a small orb of red-tinged blue light rose from the corpse. A bloody hand reached out and snatched it._ _Shaking like a leaf, Black*Star looked up into his father's glowing red eyes. "Eat," the leader of Star Clan commanded, holding out the red-blue soul to Black*Star._

_Black*Star stared at the tiny soul clenched in White*Star's enormous hand, stomach churning. His every nerve screamed at him, powerful instinct roared through his veins, and a sudden knowledge slammed into his gut: __**He must not take the soul.**__ Breathing raggedly, Black*Star took a single step back._

_With one step, he unlocked the gates of hell and released the fiery rage of its most hideous demon._

"_I told you to _eat_!" shouted White*Star, red eyes blazing._

_Black*Star shook his head, adamant. "No. I don't want to."_

_With an animalistic roar, White*Star seized the disobedient child by the neck and lifted him into the air. "YOU _DARE_ TO DEFY ME?"_

_**Don't do it, Black*Star!**_

"_DO AS I SAY!"_

_**You mustn't!**_

"…_won't…"_

"_EAT THE DAMN SOUL, BRAT!"_

"_Can't—"_

"_YOU WILL BE OBEDIENT!"_

_**It'll turn you into a monster! **__YOU ARE A COWARD! I don't want to… __**Don't be deceived **__YOU ARE A GUTLESS PIECE OF TRASH __**don't listen**__ no __**it is wrong**__ YOU ARE WEAK no no no OBEY__** don't do it don't don't **_**don't**_no…_

_No…_

"_You are no son of mine. You are—nothing." And then everything went black._

* * *

><p>From that day forward, Black*Star ceased to exist for Star Clan.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Black*Star set the heavy load he had been carrying on the ground in the training ring and stepped back. The boy looked like a wraith. His skin, which bore an unhealthy pallor where it could be seen beneath layers of bruises and welts, stretched tightly over nearly fleshless bones. His eyes were dull and sunken, his hair limp and greasy. His clothes were mere rags, more hole than cloth, and through the threadbare fabric, one could see innumerable scars. He walked with hunched shoulders and a limp from a recent injury.<em>

_The warriors in the training ring did not pause in their practice, throwing their kunai at the targets set up at one end of the arena. No one so much as glanced at Black*Star, but after a few minutes, someone spotted the bundle he had left on the ground. The woman turned to White*Star and commented, "The new targets are here."_

_White*Star looked blankly at a point over Black*Star's head. "Someone needs to put them up."_

_Knives continued to thud into wood as Black*Star wearily leaned down, picked up his bundle, and began to set up the targets. He ignored the blades flashing past, just as he ignored the constant ache in his body. He did wonder, though: when a blade finally took his life, would they bother to throw his corpse away, or would it remain unnoticed, to slowly decompose where it fell?_

* * *

><p>In the daylight, White*Star adhered to his own declaration of Black*Star's nonexistence. But under the cover of darkness and seclusion, the rules changed.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Black*Star crashed into the wall and crumpled to the ground. The boy painfully rolled to his hands and knees, but before he could lurch to his feet, a large hand snatched a handful of his shirt and slammed him into the wall once more, pinning him. Breath heavy with the stench of alcohol washed over Black*Star's face, and he struggled not to gag.<em>

"_You're a worthless pile of shit," White*Star growled. The leader of Star Clan backhanded the boy across the face. Black*Star sagged in the man's grip, nearly unconscious. "You're not even worth the effort to kill," White*Star sneered. "Your soul is too weak to bother eating." He rammed the boy's head against the wall. Dark blood smeared over the wood panels. White*Star shoved a hand against the boy's chest and slowly increased the pressure. Black*Star gasped as his brittle ribs creaked and began to snap. Smirking, the demon gave one final push, and then tossed the boy onto the floor._

"_Pathetic." White*Star turned to walk away._

_Something flickered in Black*Star's dull jade eyes. The boy forced his battered body onto its feet. Face twisted with hatred, he launched himself at the leader of Star Clan. A second before impact, the demon whirled around and slammed a kick into the boy's stomach. The child smashed into the ground and slid back, streaking the floor with blood. In an instant, White*Star's hand closed around his throat._

"_W-why?" croaked Black*Star. "Why can't I…" He coughed, and crimson liquid bubbled over his lips._

_White*Star threw back his head and laughed. "You want to know why you can't beat me?" jeered the demon. "Simple. I'm bigger than you, which means I'm more powerful than you. If I have more power than you, I can do anything I want to you." He laughed again. "You stupid little fool, you really thought you had a chance? I have the power of the _gods_, and you—you are an insignificant speck of dust." The demon stood, still snickering, and aimed a languid kick at the boy's side before disappearing into his bedroom._

"…_Then I…will…surpass…the gods…" Black*Star rasped to the empty air._

* * *

><p>The bittersweet taste of defiance changed Black*Star irredeemably. Outwardly, he continued to behave submissive and beaten, but every now and then White*Star caught sight of a spark in the boy's eyes that he did not like. But the boy was nothing, a nobody, so he shoved aside the stirrings of unease.<p>

Black*Star learned to scavenge for his own food, and to steal without being noticed. Little by little, the signs of malnourishment disappeared from his body. His wounds began to heal more quickly, and there were a few rare days when he was able to move without pain. He watched the adult warriors of Star Clan practice combat with hawkish eyes, drinking in their techniques and strategies like the water of life.

He began to disappear from the hidden mountain village for hours at a time. When Star Clan's leader noticed, the boy was severely punished, but often, the demon never realized that Black*Star had gone missing. There were advantages to not existing. A river ran through the forest not far from the village. A few miles away, at the river's edge, Black*Star found a well-hidden place where he could fish, collect wild berries, and train his body in secret.

When Black*Star was ten years old, he was discovered.

* * *

><p><em>Black*Star picked himself up off the ground, scowling. He didn't bother brushing the dirt off his rags—it was likely only the grime caked on them that held them together, anyway. The child raced through his one hundred squats of punishment, frustration lending him speed. When he was finished, he settled into his stance and began the complicated sequence that was giving him trouble for the one hundred and sixty-third time. Thirty seconds later, he was once again sprawled in the dust. Growling curses, he clambered to his feet.<em>

"_Try keeping your ankles a little farther apart and sinking more of your weight into the balls of your feet."_

_Black*Star whipped around, eyes enormous, a stolen blade materializing in his hand. At the edge of the clearing, a tall, slim man leaned casually against a tree, watching him with calculating blue eyes. His face was long, with a square chin, framed by shoulder-length hair of a light gold. His clothes—sandals, loose pants, a long-sleeved shirt bearing the legend _OSAMURAI_—were worn but serviceable, dyed in nondescript colors. A dark brown jacket hung off his shoulders, and a thin reed was clenched between his teeth._

_With a start, Black*Star realized that this man was not from Star Clan. "Who are you?" the boy demanded._

"_The name's Mifune," the man replied easily. "Do you want me to show you how to do that move properly?"_

_Black*Star hesitated. Experience had taught him that he would never receive help from anyone, but then, no one had ever offered it before. And there was something odd about this stranger's face, something different that he liked. He would one day realize that it was the lack of cruelty in his features, the genuinely kind gleam in his eye. For now, he merely nodded. The man named Mifune approached him and went about teaching him how to properly execute the sequence over which he had been stumbling._

_Half an hour later, Black*Star found himself panting, sweating, and grinning in triumph, having successfully mastered the technique. Mifune watched him, arms crossed, head tilted in curiosity. "Where you from, kid?" Black*Star shrugged. Mifune chewed his reed thoughtfully. "Some advice for you, kid: don't come back here next time you want to train by yourself. This place is dangerous. It's close to the hideout of a dangerous group of murderers. You ever heard of Star Clan?"_

_Black*Star stiffened. He turned and met Mifune's gaze, eyes somber. The samurai blinked in surprise. "Wait, you're _from_ Star Clan?" he asked, shocked. Mifune looked over the boy once more. The kid was half-starved and obviously had a history of harsh abuse. Plus, he lacked the star-shaped brand worn by Star Clan members from the moment they were old enough for serious training, and his soul was clearly not tainted by evil. But…Mifune's eyes narrowed. The kid _had_ been studying a highly advanced martial arts technique, alone, and the samurai was willing to bet that, even had he not stepped in, the boy would have gotten it sooner rather than later._

What's your story, kid?_ Mifune wondered. Aloud, he merely asked, "What's your name?"_

* * *

><p>Mifune returned to Black*Star's clearing often over the next few weeks. After his initial alarm, the boy accepted the samurai's presence without question, and the man's fascination with the boy grew. Mifune continued to help Black*Star, suggesting methods for improvement and teaching him techniques that he had never before seen. Little by little, the man drew out bits of information from the boy, and he began to piece together the child's history.<p>

Three days after meeting Black*Star, Mifune had brought another man to meet him. The new, gloomy-faced stranger with the ponytail of black hair was called Masamune, and to the boy's amazement, he could turn his body into a weapon, a long, beautiful black sword. Mifune explained that Masamune was his partner, and that people with abilities like Masamune's were called demon weapons, while people like Mifune, who could wield these weapons, were called meisters. While Black*Star rested after training, Mifune told him all about the Academy where he taught.

* * *

><p>"<em>Lord Death is a god?" Black*Star, who had been lying on the ground, hands knitted behind his head and feet submerged in the water, jumped up, exhaustion forgotten.<em>

_Mifune blinked at the intensity of the boy's expression. "Yeah. The God of Death," he repeated. "Why? What's up?"_

_For a minute, Black*Star just stared at the man. At last, he said blankly, "I'm going to surpass the gods."_

_Masamune, seated on a rock at the edge of the clearing, snorted. "No human can surpass the gods," he informed Black*Star. "It's not possible."_

_The boy glowered at the demon weapon. "I can!" he insisted, with more passion than he had previously. "I'll become greater than the gods! I can do it!"_

"_You can't change what you were born to be," Masamune intoned. It had the ring of something he had said many times before. Smirking slightly, he added, "Especially a small runt like you."_

"_I AM NOT SMALL!" bellowed Black*Star. "I'm…I'm HUGE! I'm so BIG that everyone's going to run away screaming when they realize how POWERFUL I am!" The boy turned red with rage as Masamune erupted into guffaws, nearly falling off his boulder in his fit of mirth. Black*Star was about ready to fly at the sword in a fury when Mifune rested a hand on his shoulder._

"_I believe you are powerful, Black*Star," the samurai assured him quietly. "I've never met a child with such strength."_

_The sincere compliment cooled Black*Star's wrath. There was something weird about the way the swordsman said the word "strength," though, as if he meant something other than physical prowess. But there was no time to ask the samurai about it. Masamune, snickers subsiding, suddenly called, "Mifune, we need to talk about something."_

_Leading his meister to the opposite side of the clearing, away from Black*Star, Masamune spoke in a low voice. "Look, Mifune, you can't keep putting this off. I know the kid is interesting, but we are on a mission. Go in, scout out, and destroy. Lord Death is waiting for us to call in the reinforcements so that we can start the official invasion. I don't know what we're going to do about the pipsqueak, but we can't delay this forever."_

"_I realize that," the swordsman replied, voice equally low. "I just…" He glanced at Black*Star, who was watching them curiously from a respectful distance._

_Masamune put a hand on his meister's shoulder. "I know." A hint of sadness colored his tone. "But we have no choice."_

_Mifune nodded. Pushing his weapon's hand off his shoulder, he turned away and walked over to Black*Star. "Hey, kid," the samurai called gently. The boy stared at him solemnly. "Masamune and I are going to be going back home, soon. This is the last time I'll be coming back here to help you train. Why don't we make the most of it?"_

* * *

><p>Even had Mifune and Masamune decided differently, it would have been the last day Black*Star returned to that place by the river.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Black*Star followed the river upstream, heading back to the village. It was late; the grinning moon had already chased the laughing sun out of the sky. He had stayed at his hiding place a few extra hours after Mifune and Masamune had left, training alone. [It was not, of course, that he was upset; he merely needed extra practice on the latest technique he was studying.] The delay on his return almost guaranteed that White*Star would note his absence, but the boy did not care. He simply hoped that the demon would only break an arm or his jaw, leaving his legs and ribs intact so as not to hinder his mobility during training.<em>

_The river brought Black*Star to the base of a waterfall just outside of the village. A large area by the pool of the waterfall had been cleared of vegetation and was occasionally used for particularly bloody or destructive mock-battles. Checking first for signs of life, Black*Star stepped cautiously out from the cover of the trees._

"_Sneaky little coward, aren't you?"_

_Black*Star froze as White*Star himself materialized from the shadows. The demon slowly walked toward the paralyzed boy. "Whisper*Star went out to confirm reports on the presence of DWMA spies in the area today. She came back with a tale of one little Clan nobody chatting away with the enemy." White*Star stopped five feet away from Black*Star and stared down at him menacingly. "Who were they, brat?" Black*Star said nothing. Demon eyes flashed angrily. "Speak, you little bastard!"_

_The spell of petrification released its hold on Black*Star. The boy straightened and squarely met the demon's burning gaze. "Don't call me little."_

_White*Star barked out a laugh. "I'll call you what I damn well please, runt. And you'll tell me _exactly_ what I want to know." His hand shot out to grab Black*Star by the throat._

_The ten-year-old knocked the demon's hand aside. Stunned, White*Star looked into the child's blazing eyes. "I. Am. Not. SMALL!" Black*Star roared. And with that, he lunged at the leader of Star Clan._

_The boy landed two solid hits on the incredulous White*Star before the demon woke up and smacked him away. Black*Star landed on his feet, skidding backward several feet, and yanked his stolen kunai out of its hiding place under his scrappy clothes. He darted forward once more without hesitation. White*Star's powerful leg snapped out, aiming for his head. Black*Star ducked underneath it and slashed at the demon's thigh. White*Star caught his wrist and threw the boy onto the ground. Black*Star immediately rolled onto his feet and threw the knife. White*Star knocked it away with the metal-protected back of his hand, growling, and charged Black*Star._

_The demon was infuriated. How _dare_ this pathetic scrap challenge him? Its blows were mere fleabites, its speed an annoyance, but when had it learned how to fight? And what gave a mere insect, tiny and powerless, the right to defy a god? What gave it the right to stand up straight and look him in the eye? Why did it wear that expression of determination on its face even as he pounded his fist into its stomach, tore open its flesh, snapped its bones?_

_Black*Star was losing. No matter how many hits he landed, White*Star seemed unfazed. He could almost match the leader of Star Clan in speed and dexterity, but in sheer power, endurance, and experience, he was nothing compared to the demon. Again and again, he smashed into the ground. Bones cracked, skin ripped open. His blood mixed with his sweat and dripped off his body, pooled on the ground, coated White*Star's hands. Again and again, he lurched back onto his feet. Fists balled, eyes blazed. Three years of pain and hatred and loneliness seared through his veins, steeled his muscles, hardened his resolve._

_But at last, the demon caught him by the throat. He slammed the boy into a boulder. Black*Star's eyelids flickered, but stubbornly remained open._

"_This time," White*Star hissed, "I _will_ kill you."_

* * *

><p>Black*Star had not surpassed the god.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>White*Star."<em>

_At the sound of the familiar voice, the leader of Star Clan turned around, releasing the boy. Black*Star slid to the ground, back scraping down the stone. "Mifune," growled White*Star. "So the DWMA sent you."_

_Through blurring vision, Black*Star could just make out the figure of the blond samurai standing at the center of the clearing. He held Masamune in his hand, the swirling black tattoos of the uncanny sword etched on his hands and face. "Your village is burning," Mifune informed White*Star quietly. "DWMA agents have all but eradicated the evil of Star Clan from this world. All that is left is you."_

_White*Star smirked. "You forgot one, Mifune." Reaching down, the demon grabbed a fistful of Black*Star's blue hair and dragged the boy up into the air. "Or didn't you know that this one's Star Clan, too? Doesn't have the Star Mark because he's the Clan disgrace, but the blood still runs in his veins. Or outside of them, now." He shook the limp, bleeding boy and tossed him at Mifune's feet. "Can't let that one escape," taunted the demon. "He may be worthless, but the useless bastard is _my_ son, after all." Seeing the swordsman's expression, White*Star laughed cruelly. "What's with that stupid face? Upset? Oh, that's right, you have a soft spot for little brats, don't you?"_

_**Mifune! Worry about the child later, **__counseled Masamune. __**Concentrate on the battle, first. The demon is trying to shake your focus.**_

"_Right," Mifune acknowledged, bringing his hands together around Masamune's hilt. His blue eyes locked on the glowing red orbs of the demon. "I am going to kill you," he stated with calm certainty. "You have chosen the path of the demon. Your soul has been lost to the darkness forever." Spitting out his reed, the samurai leaped over Black*Star's prone body. White*Star, a large grin splitting his face, drew a katana from a sheath strapped to his back. Metal screeched as ninja blade met uncanny sword and ground down its length._

_Black*Star, slipping in and out of the black borderland of unconsciousness, caught only bits and pieces of the battle waged overhead. Moonlight gleaming on black and silver blades. A katana slicing through the fluttering sleeve of a brown jacket. The sweep of a sword shaving off a lock of white hair. White*Star's manic cackling. A glimpse of blue eyes, hard with purpose. The reflection of a man with black hair in the heart of the uncanny sword. Three voices—one rough and growling like a wild beast, one deep and serious, one gloomy like the face it accompanied and resonating strangely as though echoing off of metal. _

_A stab, a parry. Rapid footsteps as feet whirled in a graceful, beautiful, deadly dance. Soft whistling abruptly cut off by metallic ringing. Slices, sweeps, jabs. Hilts locking, then breaking away. The flutter and snap of loose clothing, growls of anger, grunts of effort, jeered comments and stern replies._

_Splashes of deep red blood. Ragged breathing, strangled sounds of pain. Mifune, bloodstains stark against his white shirt around the gashes on his arms, back, sides. White*Star, favoring his leg, painfully moving his katana from his right hand to his left, flicking blood off his cheek. Masamune, dark liquid dripping from the tip of his blade._

_Demon and samurai were too perfectly matched. They tired at the same rate, began to favor their wounds at the same time, forced past their fatigue with the same grim determination. Too easily could this match end in a draw, but a decisive victory was essential. As one, the two concluded that they needed to find one distinct advantage over their opponent, something to give them the tiniest of edges. Thinking fast, Mifune snatched the coat hanging loosely from his shoulders and swung it between himself and the demon. White*Star, believing Mifune was using it as a distraction to gain distance, tried to dart around the billowing trench coat, only to jerk to a halt as white-hot pain flared in his stomach. He looked down to find an ebony blade buried in his abdomen._

_Mifune let the coat fall. Grasping Masamune with both hands, he tore the uncanny sword out of White*Star's body. The tip of the sword lowered, and the now-bloodstained garment slipped off the blade to pool on the floor. The leader of Star Clan put a hand to the fatal wound. He appeared almost perplexed as he brought the hand up to his face so that he could examine the crimson liquid that drenched his fingers. Looking past the gory hand, he met Mifune's eyes. Emotions flitted across the diabolical face—grim acknowledgement of defeat, cool acceptance, icy fury, pure hatred, and then—spite. Foreboding slammed into the samurai's gut. White*Star's eyes flicked to the right. Mifune's instinctively followed, and his blood went cold as his glance fell upon Black*Star._

_That briefest of lapses in the samurai's attention was all the opening the desperate, dying, vindictive demon needed. Heedless of the agony of his wounds, White*Star kicked Mifune directly on a deep gash in the swordsman's thigh. The samurai's leg gave out on him in a flare of blinding pain, rendering him immobile as White*Star darted toward the helpless child lying on the ground. "Black*Star!" shouted Mifune, horror blanching his face as the demon swooped upon the boy, murder in his eyes._

_There was a flash of white light, followed by a flicker of black shadow. White*Star's katana plunged downward with the inevitability of an executioner's axe. But suddenly, a body appeared out of nowhere between the prone child and the dying demon. Masamune's grave countenance did not so much as twitch as the katana transfixed his chest and halted, denied its intended target. A soft breath of air escaped his thin lips. His eyes dulled for a moment, then sharpened. A glow enveloped his right arm, and the limb transformed._

_The movement was too fast for the eye to see. A line of red drew itself across White*Star's torso, cutting deeply into both arms and chest. The demon's whole body shuddered, and his hand released his weapon. The leader of Star Clan toppled to his knees. "Fuck," he rasped. "Fuck." Energy draining, he collapsed. The demon's failing eyes fixed on the face of his son. The damned brat somehow still clung to the life that Star Clan's leader was rapidly losing. White*Star's hand snaked out and grasped the boy's shoulder. "Parting gift," he ground out. "Father…to son…" An ugly sneer twisted his face. "To remind you…of…your heritage…"_

_The hand on the boy's shoulder flared with evil red light. The scent of burnt flesh befouled the air. When the glow disappeared, White*Star was dead. His limp hand slid from the boy's shoulder to reveal a star-shaped brand to be forever imprinted on the child's skin._

_Mifune dragged himself to Masamune. The demon weapon had fallen. Already, his blood spread out from beneath him and sank into the soil. His life force was rapidly slipping away. Mifune made no attempt to remove the blade from his chest or to staunch the bleeding. The gestures would be meaningless, a disrespect to the stoic weapon in his final moments. Masamune met Mifune's eyes, and all that needed to be understood between the partners was wordlessly communicated in an instant._

_Masamune had only one thing left to finish. "Maybe…you can be something other than what you were born to be," he murmured hoarsely. "You were….right. That child…isn't evil. If he could…reject the curse…of his birth…he can…do anything. Tell him…" Masamune began to cough. "Tell him…that I think…he will surpass…the gods." The samurai nodded. Masamune's eyes began to drift shut. "And Mifune…Take good care of him."_

"_I will," promised the samurai quietly. The uncanny sword sighed. A small breeze caught his final breath and carried up above the blood and ashes and sorrow, where it was released to mingle with the cold purity of the mountain air._

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**.foray into the past : tsubaki nakatsukasa.**

She knew the very instant that her brother's heart stopped beating.

She did not realize until that moment that she had been listening for his heartbeat her entire life.

* * *

><p><em>The ten-year-old boy lurked just outside the threshold, huge eyes taking in his parents cooing over the tiny, bawling creature in his mother's arms. Sanjuro Nakatsukasa glanced up, beaming at his son. "Come in! Come meet your little sister," the tall man boomed. Hunching his shoulders, the boy reluctantly stepped into the room.<em>

"_Come closer," his mother urged, smiling at him. Swallowing, the boy walked up to her side and, taking a deep breath, looked down at his new sibling._

_The infant was…strange. His first thought was that she was rather ugly, with her large head and maroon skin and eyes tightly screwed up as she wailed. But there was also something miraculous about her, with her impossibly tiny fists and button nose and the way she gulped in air as though she weren't quite sure what to make of it but rather liked it all the same. There was a special sort of beauty in infants, he decided, something that defied the usual conventions. An expression of wonderment on his face, he unthinkingly reached down to stroke her skin, but suddenly remembered himself and snatched the hand back._

_His mother shook her head in amusement. "Here," she ordered. "Hold her."_

"_Wh-what?" he stammered. "But—but she's crying!" Laughing, his mother slid the baby into his protesting arms and quickly adjusted his hands so that he held her correctly._

_The child's weight surprised him, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thought he was going to drop her. But she merely settled more comfortably into his grip. Her head came to rest on his chest, one minuscule ear pressed against his rapidly drumming heart._

_Her crying ceased, and she snuggled closer, as though she were trying to listen better._

"_What is her name?" he asked shakily._

"_Tsubaki," answered his father._

"_Tsubaki," repeated the boy. "My name is Masamune," he told the infant. She gurgled at him, and a tiny smile curved his lips._

* * *

><p>Tsubaki loved her family deeply, but from the day of her birth, her brother held a special place in her heart. The shy, insecure girl respected him deeply and often wished she could be more like him. She coveted his gentle smiles and approving looks. She did everything she could to bring herself closer to him.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Tsubaki, what are you doing?"<em>

_Masamune opened the door to his little sister's bedroom to find her kneeling on the floor with an expression of comically intense concentration on her young face. A long, thin strip of fabric was tangled in her hair, wound around her right hand, clenched in her teeth, and trailing on the floor. Her left hand held her hair in a bunch at the base of her neck. Hiding a smile, Masamune knelt on the floor in front of his flustered sister._

"'_M trying to bind my hair back," the five-year-old mumbled around the cloth in her mouth. She looked at the floor, a becoming blush reddening her cheeks._

"_Why?" asked Masamune, surprised. Up until now, Tsubaki had always left her long, silky raven locks down._

_Tsubaki's blush deepened. "I…I wanted it to be like yours," she admitted, still not meeting his eyes._

_Startled, but secretly a bit pleased, Masamune chuckled. "Well, I don't think you should wear your hair like mine."_

_That made the girl look up. "Why not?" she wanted to know, hurt gleaming in her indigo eyes._

"_For one thing," Masamune replied, ruffling her hair and carefully disentangling the cloth tie from her hair and hand, "I'm a boy. And for another, every person should have his or her own style. You shouldn't have your hair exactly like your older brother's."_

"_Oh," sighed Tsubaki, disappointed._

_Smiling, Masamune deftly separated two locks of her hair from the rest. He left those to locks dangling to frame her face as he used his fingers to comb the rest of her hair into a bundle high on the back of her head. Picking up the discarded cloth strip, he began to wrap it in her hair. "I think you should keep your hair…like this." Tying off the cloth, he drew his hands away from his sister's head to examine his work. He nodded with approval. "Yes. Perfect."_

_Eyes wide, Tsubaki reached up to feel her high ponytail, which was almost, but not _exactly_, like her older brother's. Her face slowly lit up. She threw herself at her brother, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face in his chest. "Thank you," she mumbled into his shirt._

"_You're welcome," he said softly, resting his hands on her back. "Tomorrow, I can show you how to do it yourself."_

_From that day forward, she rarely did her hair any other way._

* * *

><p>Tsubaki idolized her brother. She honestly believed that he was the most wonderful person in the world. But from the age of six, she knew that he did not and would never see himself in the same way that she did.<p>

* * *

><p>"<em>Masamune is your eldest, yes?"<em>

"_Yes. He is sixteen now."_

"_Ah, so he is the one who inherited the famous Nakatsukasa shadow weapon forms? How are his abilities developing?"_

"_Actually, only one weapon form has been passed down to Masamune—the uncanny sword. It is my younger child, Tsubaki, to whom the major part of the Nakatsukasa legacy has been passed."_

_The walls were so very thin._

"_The younger? That's very unusual, is it not? And the female…it is very strange."_

"_It is not unheard of. The instances are rare, but this does happen on occasion."_

"_Does the girl have much talent?"_

"_She is a natural. She is already able to switch weapon forms without first reverting to her human state, and she shows a precocious interest in strategy. And she is so fast and strong for her age…"_

_Okaasan…please…don't say any more._

"_I've never seen such an aptitude for the blade. Her father and I are very proud of her progress. She by far exceeds our expectations…"_

_Masamune stood abruptly. The two women chatting in the other room either did not hear or took no notice of the sudden sound and continued with the conversation. Without saying a word, Masamune strode away, leaving his cup of tea on the floor. Tsubaki scrambled to her feet and chased after him, nearly tripping over her kimono._

_Failing to see the shadow trailing after him, Masamune went straight to the courtyard where the weapons in the family practiced fighting. Stripping off his outer kimono and tossing it onto a stone bench, Masamune headed straight for the center of the empty courtyard. Closing his eyes, he summoned his weapon. Black tattoos crawled across his face as his right arm glowed white and transformed into an obsidian blade._

_Crouching down in her hiding place behind the gate, Tsubaki watched with wide eyes as her brother went through every fighting form he knew at a relentless pace, starting over whenever he made the slightest mistake._

_Two hours later, panting heavily and sweating profusely, Masamune threw himself on the ground, face to the sky, limbs spread-eagled. As he regained his breath, he lifted his right arm, silhouetting his blade against the laughing sun. His mouth quirked downward. Transforming the metal back into flesh, he let his arm flop down over his face, covering his eyes._

_Tsubaki was certain that the tightness in her chest was his heart, aching._

* * *

><p>Masamune's happiness was of the utmost importance to Tsubaki. She did everything she could to please him. She never argued with her brother and went out of her way to do small favors for him. She convinced her mother to teach her to cook and made him small treats, collected vivid flowers and intricate shells to brighten his drab room, smiled for him even when she was upset or hurt. She tried to tell him with actions what she was too timid to say aloud: <em>I love you.<em>

But her love was not enough.

* * *

><p><em>Eight-year-old Tsubaki awoke to complete darkness and the crash of thunder and felt, deep within her soul, an absolute certainty that something was off. She slipped out of the shelter of her heavy blanket and stood. Stumbling through the pitch blackness, she found the door of her bedroom and slid it open. Barefoot, she padded through the sleeping house, following the note of unease in her soul to the source of the disturbance.<em>

_Tsubaki left behind the utter darkness once she stepped outside. Somewhere beyond the thick clouds obscuring the sky, the sun must have begun to rise, for there was just enough dim gray light for Tsubaki to see through the downpour a dark figure making its way down the smooth stone path that curved away from the house. Gasping, she darted out from under the eaves, the soles of her feet slapping on the wet stone. The dark figure began to turn just as she crashed into it, her fingers clutching at the folds of its cloak._

_Peeking up at the face beneath the brim of the conical straw hat, Tsubaki stammered, "W-where are you g-going, Onii-san?"_

_Masamune slowly crouched down in front of her. Tsubaki stared at his face. It was difficult to make out his features in the poor lighting and the shadows underneath his hat, but she knew that he was gazing at her with those eyes that always seemed sad, even when he smiled and laughed. Her grip on his cloak tightened._

_A gloved hand reached out and brushed a few strands of soaked hair away from Tsubaki's face before cupping her cheek. "You're getting all wet," murmured her brother._

"_I don't mind," Tsubaki mumbled as she nuzzled into his hand. "But Onii-san, you're going to get all wet, too. You should come inside."_

_A quiet sigh whispered out from Masamune's hidden lips. "I can't, Tsubaki. I'm leaving."_

"_When will you be back, Onii-san?"_

_Her brother stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Tsubaki…I'm not coming back."_

_The little girl inhaled sharply and unconsciously tugged at his cloak. "But—but why?"_

_He gently pulled his cloak out of her grasp and wrapped her small, cold hands in his large, warm ones. "I don't belong here, Tsubaki."_

"_B-but this i-is home! Of c-c-course you b-belong here!" Tsubaki protested. She stuttered, amazed at her audacity in contradicting him._

_She could just make out his sad smile. "This is your home, but not mine. I do not measure up to the Nakatsukasa name. I cannot stay. I will go elsewhere, where what I am will not stand in such stark contrast to what I should have been."_

"_But Onii-san, I'm sure that in time, you can prove to everyone how wonderful you are!"_

"_No, Tsubaki. One cannot change what one was born to be. I am a disgrace to the Nakatsukasa family, and I always will be. There is no purpose to remaining here. I will go to a place where, even with my deficiencies, I can be put to use." He pulled her into a tight hug. "Good-bye, my little camellia blossom," he whispered into her ear. Standing, he turned and walked away, leaving the young girl alone._

_Tears brimmed in Tsubaki's eyes and poured over her cheeks, mingling with the rain. She wanted to shout after her brother, to cry for him, to call him back loudly, but her tight throat allowed her only to whisper his name to his retreating back._

"_Masamune…"_

* * *

><p>He wrote one letter home six months after disappearing, explaining that he had gone to Shibusen and found himself a meister named Mifune. The letter was six lines long. Tsubaki's mother wept silently, finally convinced that he would not be returning. Her father wordlessly handed the girl the letter, his saddened eyes telling her to keep it safe. Tsubaki kept it tucked in her clothes.<p>

She missed him terribly, but she could sense that, far, far away, Masamune's heart was…lighter. He was not happy, nor entirely content, but he felt less oppressed, less trapped, less burdensome. Tsubaki hoped that one day, maybe, he would find tranquility.

Four years after setting out on his journey, Masamune found his peace. It was brought to him by a blue-haired boy who had fought the destiny his blood had determined for him.

* * *

><p><em>She knew the very instant that her brother's heart stopped beating.<em>

_She was in the garden, gazing at the camellia blossoms, when it hit her all at once, sapping the strength from her legs and knocking the breath out of her. She fell to her knees as, in a single instant, a flood of knowledge poured into her soul._

_Thousands of images of a fighting alongside of a blond samurai, of destroying pre-kishin, of collecting souls and growing stronger. What it meant to be a weapon and to have a meister—the feel of calloused hands on the hilt of his sword, hours of exhaustion and pain and frustration, the rush of victory, complete reliance on another, the gift of another relying entirely on you. Teamwork, argument, friendship, confusion, understanding. Discovery. Journey._

_More specific. One mission in particular, standing out. Go in, scout out, and destroy. A clan—_in some ways, like ours_—of demons. To be born here, to be evil. A long trip, thousands of miles. Searching for days; well hidden. Near, close, signs. But then—a boy. Blue, blue hair. Short, scrawny. Bruised, scarred, broken, but those eyes—not beaten. Reluctant curiosity. Star Clan? Mifune's interest, Mifune's care, Mifune's concern. Uncertainty, because Star Clan, Star Clan, Star Clan. You can't change what you were born to be._

_Moving on, away from the confusing boy. Focus on mission. Reinforcements, invasion, attacking and defending and burning, burning. Ashes fill the air. But—"We haven't identified White*Star among the dead." The leader, the leader has yet to be destroyed. Search, search, and then—find. Find, standing over the boy, killing the boy. A handful of bruises, a couple of shallow cuts—the boy…had fought back? The boy…was his _son?_ No, focus. Focus on mission. Confusing boy later. Fight to survive, fight to win, fight to end evil. Victory tasted, but then—_

_And then clarity. For an instant, but an instant could last forever. He moved, faster than he had ever moved in his life. And he gave his life to save that of the boy who _didn't _believe that you can't change what you were born to be, the boy who had the power to make what he believed real. Because he had _fought_ White*Star, fought _destiny_, fought the very blood running through his veins. He hadn't won yet, but—_

_Only if you fight will you have a chance of victory._

I want to meet you again, Black*Star,_ Masamune thought. _Maybe I will.

_And in that instant, he somehow connected with Tsubaki's soul, thousands of miles away. He gave her his memories, his thoughts, his emotions, his understanding. And he gave her the Uncanny Sword._

You are complete now, _he told her. _And I—am content. I am sorry that we could not meet one more time. I love you, Tsubaki.

_And he was gone, and she was alone in a garden, kneeling before the camellia blossoms, with tears pouring down her cheeks. But she smiled. "Yeah. I love you too, Masamune."_

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**.convergence point.**

She was amazed.

He was _nothing_ like the quiet, grim, scarred boy that her brother had shown her two years before. He was loud, arrogant, boisterous, cheerful. But as she watched him booming out self-praises and vows of his future superiority to the gods, even as he was ignored and mocked and threatened, she realized that at the core, he was the same. Determined, single-minded, confident, defiant. The corners of her mouth lifted into the tiniest of smiles. She rather _liked_ him. She stayed throughout his performance, and clapped at the end.

He had no idea who she was.

It took him over a year to figure out that she was a Nakatsukasa. Another six months passed before he made the connection. He froze and fell completely silent in the middle of a monologue about his ability to accomplish anything. She tilted her head curiously. He smiled—a smile she had never before seen that made her heart quiver strangely. And then he went right on with his speech. He didn't need to know that she was Masamune's sister. He had already decided that she was important to him, and that he would not let any harm befall her.

Sometimes, it was okay to let destiny figure things out.

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**[.nine point something.]**

Silence hung over the six students, none of them quite sure how to react. They had all realized not far into Black*Star's story that they had agreed to something much bigger than they had expected when they had decided to share the stories of their partnerships. There was a sense, though, that it was far too late to back out. Uneasily, they avoided looking at one another, staring at their hands or the clouds lazily drifting overhead.

"Well, that's how it happened," Black*Star declared suddenly, knitting his fingers together behind his head and stretching his shoulders. "Of course a god like me would have no trouble finding the right weapon."

"Oh, please," Maka retorted. "It took you a year and a half to figure out that Tsubaki was Masamune's sister. Tsubaki deserves all the credit for recognizing you. You just got lucky."

Black*Star grinned. "Maybe I'm the god of luck, then." Maka rolled her eyes. The tension weighing on the group lightened.

"I suppose Liz and I can go next," Kid volunteered. Everyone nodded, and the young reaper began his narration.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Me, angsty? Never. By the way, the voice in Black*Star's head would be his conscience, and I apologize for any mess ups with Japanese culture. I am not Japanese and have not studied it.

A very special thanks to Knickknack47, who helped me edit this chapter. This was probably the hardest to write thus far, with the exception of the first. Thank you to any who dare to review.

= S h e n z u u l =


	10. foray into the past II

**.foray into the past : death the kid.**

A God of Death cannot bring life into the world. The domains of Life and Death are meant to exist side by side, their realms to intertwine and touch, but never to mingle. Such a disruption in the careful, perfect balance would throw the world into chaos. In one, and only one respect do the two domains cross, in a paradoxical relationship that ties the two together: the God of Death lives, whilst the God of Life lies dead.

But all things that live must die, as none know better than the living Lord of Death, so there must come a time when the Reaper retires from the world. To preserve the balance of Life and Death, then, a new Lord Death must rise as the old falls. Which brings one back to the original problem: a God of Death cannot bring life into the world.

Thus, when the time comes—the Reaper, to whom the precise hour of death is revealed, knows instinctively when this time is—the God of Death, through a process known only to him and possible only for him, removes a piece of his soul.

This soul shard is inserted into a body of the Reaper's making or choosing. Lord Death may select the body of a fallen comrade, or build one from the materials of the earth, as the first beings are said to have been made, or create one in the manner of humans. The soul shard provides the body sufficient energy to spark its vital functions. Over time, the piece of the Reaper's soul changes and grows and becomes an independent, individual soul. And then, on its own, it gradually acquires Life.

Consequently, when Death the Kid was called the son of Lord Death, the nomenclature was only partially and (perhaps) metaphorically correct. Lord Death may have fathered (or created, or selected—Death the Kid had never asked) Kid's body, but his soul had once been a part of Lord Death's. And since, by one definition, the soul is the essence of the person, it might have been more accurate to say that Death the Kid _was_ Lord Death.

Or, to be even more precise, he _had been_ and _would be_ Lord Death.

The reaper process of acquiring life and the human process of growing up are, in many ways, similar, yet disparate. For example, the early years for both human and reaper are critical for the development of self-awareness and social functioning. However, while for humans these changes are, for the most part, gradual and smooth, reapers tend to experience growth in these areas in leaps and bounds. Furthermore, there is enough difference in human and reaper rates of growth that, from infancy to adolescence, reapers are noticeably more mature than their human peers in some areas yet rather immature in others.

The first thing that a reaper knows is the Balance. The Balance of the World; the Balance of Life and Death; the Balance of Yin and Yang; the Balance of Positive and Negative Forces. Balance. The awareness of this Balance comes before even self-awareness and shapes the reaper's development. Young reapers instinctively feel the call to maintain the Balance, and, without the temper of experience, crave perfection. It is not uncommon, therefore, for young reapers to be afflicted by symptoms of neuroses in their uncontrolled desire for perfection unattainable in this imperfect world.

The instinct to maintain the Balance manifested in Death the Kid as an obsession with symmetry. At first, this mania was so strong that Lord Death had to keep the child confined in the mansion that he had built for his son, for the boy could not bear the asymmetry of the outside world for even short periods of time. It was difficult enough for the child to learn to deal with the three white, horizontal Lines of Sanzu that curved around half of his head, destroying Kid's personal symmetry. The young child suffered bouts of depression whenever he caught glimpses of himself in the reflective surfaces that could not be entirely removed from the mansion.

At the age of six, Death the Kid experienced a spurt of mental growth that allowed him to cope better with his obsession. He was taught to read and write, and, despite the troubles his symmetry-focused complex gave him in the subject, was reading texts that a human might read at the college level within the year. Lord Death, anticipating a certain problem with numbers, held off teaching Kid math until he turned eight.

When Death the Kid was ten, having gone through several more jumps in psychological maturity, Lord Death introduced him to the human world for the first time. Immediately, a sense of isolation overwhelmed the child. He knew a great deal about humans from his reading, but he had not been prepared for how _differently_ their minds worked from his own. He felt that there was some similarity, some parallel between the reaper and the human, but the connection was achingly just beyond his grasp. Humans were alienated by his preoccupation with symmetry and precocious mind; he could not identify with the complexity of their emotions and social interactions.

So Death the Kid learned the lot of a reaper: always separate, always distinct, yet unable to escape the longing for that elusive bond between human and god.

Succinctly, loneliness.

Death the Kid's contact with humans over the next few years remained minimal. His focus on learning the duties of the God of Death allowed little time for social intercourse, and he found himself reluctant to put forth the effort to socialize. The general disregard for symmetry among humans made him edgy, and their hesitancy to accept him and his idiosyncrasies was not particularly encouraging. Lord Death gently pushed Kid to find a weapon to work with, but the boy felt uncomfortable fighting with asymmetrical weapons in an asymmetrical style. More often than not, Kid took on his missions alone. He was quite capable of destroying pre-kishin without the aid of a weapon, and he preferred the solitude to the awkwardness of resonating with someone who did not truly match him.

Lord Death watched his son with worry that he could not entirely hide behind his skull mask. Death the Kid listened to his father's cautions about opponents that were too strong even for the strength of a reaper if that reaper fought alone, and he promised his father that he would continue to search for a weapon he could connect with. Secretly, however, Kid despaired of ever finding a weapon on which he could rely, a human with whom he could relate.

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**.foray into the past : elizabeth patricia thompson.**

She didn't remember what her original name was. Maybe it was Elizabeth, maybe it was Patricia. Could've been Elizabeth Patricia or Patricia Elizabeth. She wasn't sure if Thompson was really her last name, or if she had just made it up. Hell if she cared.

She didn't remember her parents, or any family at all, for that matter. Maybe she'd been abandoned and learned how to survive on her own, or maybe whoever had taken care of her had been killed. It was possible that she had run away from some ridiculously wealthy family, but she was more inclined to believe that she had grown up on the streets. Felt like street sense ran in her blood; you didn't get that kind of instinct from pampered rich kids, even the tough, smart ones. But she didn't know, didn't remember. All she knew was that she was alone.

She didn't remember who _that person_ was, didn't remember why she cared so damned much. It didn't make it hurt any less. Love was built on tougher stuff than memory, and dead was dead.

She didn't remember how she had lost her memories. Head wound, trauma? There was no specific evidence, no way to prove anything, so who gave a shit? Those memories weren't coming back, and there wasn't a damned thing she could do about it. No point in dwelling on things she couldn't change.

She did remember the blood. How it trickled down the drain, stained _that person_'s clothes, splattered on her, coated that monster's teeth—

She remembered Kid. In fact, that's where she remembered her life starting. With Kid. So maybe all that other crap from before, maybe it didn't matter. She could live with not remembering.

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**.convergence point.**

_"…never worked with a meister that had Soul Perception before. I had no idea it would be so useful! I've never managed to track down a pre-kishin so quickly! Usually I have to do a bunch of research to figure out where its usual lair or haunts are, and then search from there. It can take sooooo looooong…Once, it took me three weeks to find my target. By the time I found it…"_

_Death the Kid heaved an internal sigh and tuned out the endless blather of the scythe at his side as he traveled though the night-shrouded streets of Death City. He kept his mild irritation in check, hoping that the other boy would not be able to sense it on his soul wavelength. The young weapon was already nervous just from being around the reaper, and it was intensifying his natural proclivity for chattiness. Kid wondered how someone who liked to talk as much as this human could stand to go without a partner. Perhaps no one else could bear his constant prattle, either. He immediately chided himself for his ungenerous thoughts and reminded himself that the boy had quieted down and proved capable of unwavering focus during battle._

_Lord Death had specifically requested that Kid aid the as-of-yet-partnerless scythe with this mission. The pre-kishin in question had left the first weapon-meister pair to hunt it severely injured, and the God of Death did not wish to place another student in harm's way. Kid suspected that his father had ulterior motives in this particular request—namely, once again trying to help him find a weapon—but had reluctantly agreed to temporarily pair with Darwin rather than seeking permission to take the mission alone._

_As expected, the pre-kishin had been no match for Death the Kid's power. Kid could have taken it down on his own without trouble, though he could not honestly say that the scythe had not made the task easier. Kid had found that, although it was impossible to wield a scythe symmetrically, it was the easiest of asymmetrical weapons for him to use. It was the traditional reaper weapon; perhaps his soul remembered the connection. Nevertheless, Kid had no intention of remaining partnered with the talkative Darwin. The very prospect of it made him shudder slightly. Fortunately, the scythe at his side did not appear to notice._

_"…was raining, and the pre-kishin was sticking to the rooftops. As if slippery tiles weren't enough to worry about, there was lightning, too. I thought I was going to get zapped the second I brought out a blade! I seriously hate thunderstorms. That's the last…"_

_Something twanged at the edge of Kid's Soul Perception. "Darwin," Kid said sharply, cutting off the scythe's monologue. "Please excuse my interruption. I'm sensing something, and I need to concentrate."_

_"Er. R-right. I'll be quiet now," the weapon stammered. "But, um, my name is, uh, Drew."_

_"My apologies," Kid replied absently, fiddling with his Perception, trying to get a lock on the abnormality that had caught his attention. The signal was weak and quite a distance away, but something about the wavelengths it emitted made the young reaper's gut clench. "I think it may be a pre-kishin," he murmured. He summoned his internal map of Death City into his mind's eye and layered it with the information coming through his Soul Perception. "This way," Kid declared. "We're going after it." Without another word, he set off, compelling the scythe to jog to keep up with his long stride._

_Kid cut through alleys, scaled walls, and jumped fences as only an experienced meister on the hunt could. The young weapon behind him struggled not to lose him in the maze of city streets. Kid's feet automatically traced the shortest path to his destination; his mind was entirely focused on zeroing in on the wavelength his Soul Perception had targeted. As reaper and scythe neared the suspicious soul, Kid held out a hand. "Darwin, transform," he commanded._

_"It's Drew," the scythe reminded him as he shifted into his weapon form._

_"Ah, of course." Kid caught the scythe's shaft and twirled the weapon expertly around his hands. He rested the scythe on one shoulder, grimly forcing himself to ignore the asymmetry of the position, and broke into a dead run. Close, so close. The young reaper's insides squirmed with unease. Without hesitation, he darted around a final corner and skidded to a halt. As he tried to make sense of what his eyes revealed to him, several feelings warred in his chest before at last yielding to sweeping bewilderment._

_Kid had clearly been too late—for someone. Bloodstains streaked the sidewalk and blossomed on the wall of a drugstore. The window of the pharmacy had shattered, the jagged edges red-tinted and glittering in the dim yellow light of a cracked streetlamp. Slashes and holes scored every surface, even the asphalt of the street. Some distance away, a trashcan rested on its badly crushed side, lid missing, contents strewn across the road. And, just before Kid, a broken body lay crumpled on the cement, delicate, lifeless limps bent at sharp angles dramatized by the heavy shadows. A crimson soul hovered over her body._

_The picture was wrong._

_Kid loosened his grip on the scythe. With a flash of light, the boy returned to his human form, staring at the scene with huge eyes. Paying him no attention, Kid stepped forward and crouched beside the woman's body, gaze traveling from her ravaged face to the scarlet orb floating above her. It was definitely a pre-kishin soul; the deep color was a dead giveaway even without the evil wavelengths pulsing powerfully in Kid's Perception. But Kid knew perfectly well that the bodies of pre-kishin vaporized upon death. The dead woman had to be human, but where was her soul? If someone had defeated the pre-kishin, why would that person take the human soul but leave the kishin egg behind? Evil creatures that consumed innocent souls did so mainly to boost their power; just because they preferred to eat uncorrupted souls did not mean they would ignore a free meal. What kind of being was Kid dealing with, here? Could it be a witch? What could her motive possibly be?_

_The young reaper rubbed his aching temples with the tips of his long fingers. His gaze chanced upon the bloodstains on the ground beside the corpse. His golden eyes sharpened as he noticed an irregular pattern. He traced the strange streak away from the body to the entrance of a small alley not far from the one through which he had arrived. Ahhh…It appeared someone had been bleeding as he, she, or it had dragged itself away from the scene. He focused on his Soul Perception...searching...and…there!_

_Two souls, very close together, moving slowly but steadily away from the murdering ground. One was extremely weak, but plainly human—probably the soul of the dead woman. As for the other…Kid frowned, trying to get a clear reading. The wavelength was a mess, a jumble of churning emotions. Pain, fear, anger, hatred, and bloodlust jarred through Kid's Perception, eliciting a wince from the young reaper. The typhoon of emotions was overwhelming, drowning out the soul's very identity. Kid could not determine if the chaotic wavelength belonged to a human, pre-kishin, or witch._

_"Darwin," Kid began._

_"Drew," the scythe corrected glumly._

_"Right," Kid sighed. "I want you to take this kishin egg and go directly back to the DWMA to report to my father. Tell him our original mission was a success and explain what we have seen here. Show him the kishin egg before consuming it; he may be able to extract some information. I am going to follow...a lead."_

_The scythe nodded his understanding, carefully picked up the pre-kishin soul, and set off for the school at a trot. Kid slowly rose from his crouch. He looked down at the unfortunate woman one last time, a hint of sadness in his metallic gaze. He had been too late to save people before, and he knew that in the future, it would happen again, but he could not help but regret the waste of life. The woman's features were badly mauled, barely recognizable, but he could see that she had still been fairly young. She might have been beautiful, too, with the delicacy of her bone structure and the rich golden-brown color he could still glimpse in the blood-matted locks of her long hair._

_Kid exhaled. A tragic waste it may have been, but he had no time to dwell on it. He closed his eyes slowly, counted to eight, then snapped them open again. Time to hunt._

_The two souls pounding in Kid's Soul Perception served as his beacon, the bloodstains as his path. As he followed the crimson splashes on the ground, his heart beat in time with the pulse of the wavelengths. Had he been seen, an onlooker would have thought him a ghost flitting through the shadows, with his deathly pale skin and bright irises glinting with purpose in light of the grinning moon. He moved swiftly, the trail of blood easy to pursue._

_Kid's chase led him through the narrowest, dingiest, darkest streets of Death City. His footsteps clattered loudly on the uneven pavement, the clamoring echoes seeming to urge him on. The young reaper wondered at his target's ability to continue moving despite the amount of blood it had lost. Scarlet smears and gory handprints betrayed how heavily Kid's quarry relied on the walls to support itself. Something powerful drove it to its goal._

_However, despite its determination, the being, whatever it was, was unable to advance quickly, undoubtedly due to its heavy injuries. Kid found himself rapidly catching up. When he sensed the erratic soul wavelength enter a long alley that he knew had only one exit, he quickly calculated a new route that would bring him there before it. Scaling the back wall of a seedy pub—even the bars were closed at that ungodly hour of the night, the usual drunkards already unconscious at home or in the gutters—Kid reached the rooftops. For meisters and criminals, the rooftops of Death City served as a second network of "streets," pathways that led to places none of the main thoroughfares could approach._

_In minutes, the reaper arrived at the dark, quiet pawnshop where the alley once again coincided with the open street. Death the Kid prowled over to the edge of the roof and crouched down to wait, still and silent as an ominous gargoyle. The turbulent soul steadily drew nearer. The strength of the fitful wavelength was beginning to disrupt Kid's own soul. The young reaper felt a pang of nausea as irregularities forced their way into his usually rhythmic, precise wavelength._

_Kid's sharp golden eyes, probing the gloom, at last caught sight of a dim glow. His ears picked up on the faint sound of ragged breathing and cloth scraping over the rough alley walls. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out a dark figure lurching toward him. His Soul Perception told him that the source of the muted light was the soul of the deceased human, shielded behind the figure's hand. His mouth tightened. Making no more noise than the gentle rustling of leaves in a light breeze, he leaped from his perch on the edge of the roof and landed directly in front of his quarry. He straightened slowly, eyes crackling, countenance forbidding. The figure jerked back. Its hold on the human soul shifted, allowing the light to escape through its fingers and shine on its features._

_She looked ghastly. The eerie blue illumination of the soul she cradled against her chest bleached her face of color, magnifying the stark contrast between her pallid skin and the dark crimson liquid splattered all over it. Her eyes stood out, wide and wild, and her teeth were bared in a silent snarl. Blood slicked her short, tangled hair. Her clothes were in shambles, badly torn and coated in grime. One hand pressed against her side in an unsuccessful attempt to staunch the bleeding from a deep gash just under her ribs. She was leaning against the alley wall, legs trembling below her. But despite the monstrous appearance lent by dirt and blood, beneath the gore was recognizable a mere girl, no older than eleven or twelve._

Not a pre-kishin,_ Kid thought. Which meant that she was either a human...or a witch. Kid's muscles tensed. Unconsciously gathering a commanding aura around himself, Kid spoke quietly but clearly: "Release that soul."_

_The girl clutched the human soul possessively as her own soul flared with anger and hatred. "You can't have her," she growled. "She's mine!" Her wavelength stabbed painfully into Kid._

_Suppressing a wince, Kid took a step forward and stretched out his hand, palm upturned."Give it to me!" he demanded again._

_The girl stumbled backwards. "No!" she shouted. She yanked her bloodstained hand away from the wound in her side and pointed at Kid as a child might aim a mock gun, index and middle fingers trained at a point directly between his eyes, thumb cocked like the hammer of a revolver. "S-stay back," she ordered shakily. "Stay back!"_

_Kid frowned, bemused. Even for a witch, this behavior was eccentric. Cautiously taking another step forward, ready to dodge a spell at any moment, he asked, "What purpose do you have for that soul?"_

_The girl backed away as Kid slowly advanced. "I'm going to protect her," she snarled. "I won't let anything happen to her! Stay back, I said!" She staggered another step away from Kid and slammed into a wall. Her chest heaved as she panted, on the verge of hyperventilation. Her eyes widened even further as Kid took yet another step closer. "Stay _back!"_ she yelled. She dropped the human soul, which sunk a few inches before floating calmly in front of her. The girl now aimed two finger guns at Kid (a perfectly symmetrical pose, a small part of Kid could not help but note)._

_The reaper hesitated. Nothing about the girl's behavior indicated that she was anything other than a hurting, terrified, confused, but very human child. Her raging wavelength seemed only to confirm this theory. Nevertheless, Kid did not let down his guard as he lifted his palms in a placating gesture and said in a slightly gentler voice than before, "It would be for the best if you relinquished the soul to me."_

_The girl's arms trembled. "I—SAID—NO!" she roared. Light erupted around her hands. Kid reflexively threw himself to the side. His pupils shrank to pinpoints as he stared directly into the burning heart of the light. Within the crackling sphere of energy, the girl's hands distorted, as though seen through a thick haze. Then the flesh began to change. Her index and middle fingers fused, thickened, and lengthened. Pale skin turned gray and shiny and hard, finally becoming recognizable as the barrels of twin handguns. Her ring fingers twisted unnaturally and curved in on themselves, morphing until they had become triggers resting beneath her pinkies. Her palms and parts of her wrists blackened and developed a rough, regular texture. She swiveled toward Kid and sighted with her thumbs even as they shrank and silvered. Kid found himself staring into the muzzles of her now very-real handguns._

A weapon!_ Kid berated himself. Why hadn't the possibility even occurred to him? Was it because of how long she had waited to transform? Or did it go all the way back to the uneaten kishin egg? No matter, now was not the proper moment for retrospection. He was somewhat relieved for the confirmation that this girl was not a witch, but weapons brought with them complications of their own. Although not naturally evil—they were human, after all, and just as liable to lean toward right as wrong—they could be extremely dangerous, especially when they were as agitated as this girl. Kid needed to calm her before she lost the last shreds of control._

_Keeping his hands up peacefully, Kid took a respectful step back. "I apologize for frightening you," he said soothingly. "I will not attempt anything without your permission." The girl eyed him suspiciously, not relaxing her stance. "Permit me to ask," Kid began cautiously, hoping her silence meant that she was listening, "what exactly you intend to do with the soul?"_

_"I'm going to protect her," hissed the girl insistently._

_"How?" Kid asked softly. "Surely you don't mean to carry her with you forever. How will she find peace?"_

_The girl glared at him. "I'm bringing her to Lord Death," she snapped. "I'll deliver her into his hands myself."_

_Kid blinked, caught by surprise. Although it was no secret that Lord Death gathered the souls of the human dead in addition to hunting pre-kishins and witches, few people dwelled upon it. Humans possess a remarkable ability to erase from their thoughts that which is unpleasant, even if it stares them in the face daily. For a traumatized young girl—even one who was a human weapon—to have considered this less-acknowledged capacity of the God of Death, and, moreover, to have decided to go to him herself despite her own poor condition, was simply incredible. Kid searched the girl's expression for fear—surely, exhausted, injured, and on the verge of collapse she could not approach Lord Death himself without fear—but the reaper found only grim determination on that small face._

_Something stirred in him then, something Death the Kid could not name. It was more than respect, more than admiration. His countenance softened, and a hint of genuine compassion warmed his metallic eyes, lending them humanity. The girl sensed the change, though she did not entirely understand it; she continued to level her handguns at Kid, but her muscles loosened slightly. "I can help you," Kid told her quietly. "Will you let me?"_

_"You just want to steal her away from me!" accused the girl._

_"I will not," Kid promised. "But I will help you safely reach the DWMA, if you allow me."_

_"I don't _need_ help," the girl countered harshly. "And why the hell would I trust you?"_

_Kid gazed at her evenly. "I am the son of Lord Death," he said simply._

_The girl stared, disbelieving. "You're lying!"_

_"Why don't you check my soul? You are a weapon; it should be within your capabilities."_

_The girl narrowed her eyes at Kid. For a moment, he was able to pick out a clear note of uncertainty in her chaotic wavelength before her entire soul shuddered under the stress of her tempestuous emotions. _She is not sure she can match her wavelength to mine at the moment,_ Kid realized. "Calm down," the reaper instructed. "Try to collect and hold your feelings. Control your wavelength."_

_"I can't," she snapped._

_"Yes, you can," Kid retorted._

_The girl glowered at Kid. For a moment, he thought she would ignore his advice and refuse his help. Then, abruptly, she wrenched at her emotions, hammering her wavelength into a manageable shape. Without warning, she jammed her soul into Kid's. A gasp of pain tore from Kid's throat. "Control it," he bit out through clenched teeth. "Not so—forceful—"_

_The girl gritted her own teeth, struggling with her soul. Little by little, she wrested it into alignment with Kid's. There was one horrible moment when their souls screamed with dissonance, sparks of energy flaring as the discordant wavelengths ground together, on the verge of rejection, and then—_

_Something clicked. It felt like the whole world had been teetering, but suddenly slid into place. An overwhelming sense of _rightness_ flooded Kid's Perception, and his soul swelled with energy. It took him an indeterminate amount of time to comprehend what was happening. _Soul Resonance_, he realized wonderingly. Not the basic soul resonance that even imperfectly matched weapons and meisters could reach, a simple connection of wavelengths, but true Soul Resonance, the state achieved when two souls pulsed in perfect harmony, to the point where they functioned as one, a state of enormous power and potential, one that many meister-weapon pairs never managed to achieve._

This is...impossible,_ Kid thought numbly. It took years of practice and relationship-building for most partner sets to master Soul Resonance, yet this girl, an utter stranger to him, had somehow managed to unite her chaotic wavelength with his own careful, measured one. Tentatively, Kid allowed his consciousness to swirl around the bond, exploring, probing. The girl's emotions swept over him, harmless, no longer causing him pain. Kid slipped past them easily, searching for the core of her soul, her essence. He found it almost immediately. A thousand half-formed impressions surfaced in his mind. None was sharp enough by itself to snatch his attention, but as they gathered together, a shape began to materialize. There was something...different about this soul, something special, unique. It was divided, yet whole, separated, yet balanced...Kid looked closer, fascinated…_

_...and with a gasp, the girl severed the connection. Kid's eyebrows quirked slightly in surprise only to lower again as guilt stabbed at him. Caught up in the moment, he had forgotten that the Soul Resonance had probably been an accident; the girl had not technically given him permission to delve so intimately into her soul. "I am sorry," Kid apologized, mortified by his own behavior._

_Slowly, the girl lowered her guns. Her head cocked to the side, and an odd expression crossed her face, as though she were trying to figure something out. The whirling vortex of her emotions began to subside. Her painful feelings neither disappeared nor weakened, but they settled, no longer wreaking havoc on her wavelength. For the first time since her soul had registered on Kid's Soul Perception, he was able to read it normally, to sense that she was human, to discern her emotions without being attacked by them._

_"You'll...help me?" the girl whispered hesitantly. "You'll help me...bring her soul to Lord Death?"_

_Kid nodded mutely. The girl stared at him for a few moments longer. "Okay," she said at last. "Okay." With a small flash of light, her hands returned to flesh and blood. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around the soul still floating in front of her. Taking a few uncertain steps toward Kid, she stumbled. Kid was by her side in a heartbeat, thin hands catching her by the shoulders. Both girl and reaper stiffened at the contact. Their eyes met, reflecting one another's apprehension. Then, slowly, they relaxed. Kid inspected the wound in the girl's side._

_"This looks bad," Kid murmured. "I do not think it would be wise for you to walk much further. I will carry you." The girl swayed on her feet, not replying. Deciding to be grateful for her lack of protest, Kid knelt and helped her climb onto his back. Her thin arms crept around his neck; her hands held the soul of the dead woman over his heart. He could feel the faint thrum against his chest through the girl's fingers. Rising, Kid was about to set off for the DWMA when something occurred to him._

_"What's your name?"_

_The girl shifted against his back. A peculiar feeling crept over her soul, as though it stood on the brink of something important, oscillating between two choices._

_"Pat...ty…?" she mumbled, more to herself than to Kid. Her soul wavered. Something Kid couldn't quite describe welled within her, almost like a certain part of her soul was gaining dominance. Her wavelength changed subtly, then steadied. "No," the girl said quietly. "Liz. My name is Liz."_

][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][o][

**[.ten point something.]**

"It took awhile to understand the dual nature of her soul. Well, actually, I cannot claim to fully understand it even now. But our partnership simply...fell into place. After that first, unexpected Soul Resonance, we both subconsciously knew that we were weapon and meister. We never even officially acknowledged it. Once her injury had healed, we started going on missions together, with my father's full approval."

"Yeah," Liz said with a shrug. "It wasn't that complicated. We just followed our instincts. There were a few rough spots, though. We had to build up our trust, and even though we had managed Soul Resonance once, it took us a long time to master it." Kid nodded in agreement.

"So…" Tsubaki began hesitantly, "you never found out who that woman was?"

Liz stared off into the distance. "No," she replied softly. "I never did. Neither her body nor soul could be identified." Tsubaki's eyes filled with sympathy, and she scooted closer to her fellow weapon, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Liz glanced at her and gave her a small, tired smile.

One by one, gazes turned to Soul and Maka. Soul sighed and absently rubbed the stump of his leg. Reaching through his bond with his meister, he sent her a silent question. _Ready?_

The feelings she returned matched his exactly. _No. But it's time._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** I offer my sincere apologies for the long delay in updates, but excuses bore me, so we won't go into those. I can no longer promise quick or regular updates, but I assure you I have no intention of dropping this story. Now, onto plot-related issues. No, Elizabeth Patricia will not be regaining her memories. You are welcome to review with theories on what exactly her story is—I'd love to hear them. Also, Elizabeth Patricia is not necessarily her original name. It is simply what Kid calls her in his mind, because it sounds best to him.


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